When they reached the club, Darren climbed out first, his expression schooled back into composure—or close enough. The dim light from the club's recessed entry caught the faint tension in his jaw, and a sliver of harsh sunlight from a crack in the door cut a sharp line across his cheek as he stepped inside. Normally, he thrived here—among the hum of luxury and control, where everything moved to his rhythm.
But today, something in him refused to settle.
A restless pulse coiled beneath his skin, thrumming like a warning he didn't understand. The memory of her still clung to him—the click of her heels, the way her skirt hugged her hips, the defiance in her eyes when she'd said no.
He walked through the club's private entrance, the heavy bass dulling as the door shut behind him. The interior glowed with low amber light, every surface slick and deliberate—like him. Mateo was already there, lounging on a leather sofa, a half-empty glass of whiskey in hand, looking every bit the devil's confidant he was.
Mateo was the only person Darren allowed close enough to see the cracks in his armor.
He took one look at Darren's face and smirked. "Well, someone looks like they just wrestled a bear and lost. Or perhaps… a particularly stubborn kitten?"
Darren didn't bother with a glare. He dropped into the armchair opposite, tugging his tie loose with an impatient flick. "She refused to change."
Mateo's grin widened, slow and knowing. "Ah. The outfit. I saw her walk out. Very… striking. Did you expect anything less from Ophelia?"
Darren's jaw clenched, the memory igniting a dark pulse in his chest. "David and Philip came back from her father's house looking like they'd fought a tigress. Scratch marks on David's face. Bite marks on Philip's hand. I should've remembered who I was dealing with."
Mateo chuckled, low and amused. "And yet, you expected compliance?"
"I expected sense," Darren growled, reaching for the decanter and pouring himself a drink. The ice clinked sharply against the glass. "I told her to change. She defied me. Openly."
Mateo lifted his brows in surprise. "And you let her?"
The glass hit the table with a dull, echoing thud. Darren's voice came out quieter, but colder. "What was I supposed to do, Mateo? Drag her upstairs in front of my staff? Announce to the world that my 'acquisition' refuses to follow a simple command about her attire?"
For a long moment, neither spoke. The tension in the air was thick enough to taste.
Mateo leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The humor faded from his tone. "You're slipping, hermano. I've known you for years. I've seen you make kings beg for mercy. But this… this is different."
Darren looked up sharply, eyes glinting.
Mateo's voice softened, but the words cut deep. "You're not angry because she disobeyed you. You're angry because you didn't stop her."
The truth struck like a blade. Darren's hand tightened around the glass, his pulse thrumming with something dangerously close to frustration—and something else.
"She's not like the others," he said finally, his voice rough. "There's a fire in her. A defiance that reminds me of… me." He let out a bitter laugh. "Except I learned to bury mine. She wears hers like armor. And I can't—" His jaw tightened. "I can't look away."
Mateo's expression shifted, interest flickering behind his calm gaze. "And you find that appealing."
"It's infuriating," Darren bit out. "She looks at me like I'm just another man. Like I haven't bought her, saved her, tethered her to my world. She challenges me at every turn. And today—" He broke off, the image flashing through his mind again: her standing at the bottom of his staircase, proud and untouchable, every line of her body screaming freedom.
Every man who looked at her would imagine what he already knew. The thought alone twisted something dark inside him.
Mateo watched him carefully. "Possessiveness, mi amigo. You've always claimed what's yours. And she—by refusing to submit—makes you want to claim her harder."
Darren stood abruptly, pacing the room. The movement was precise, restrained—like a predator in a cage too small for his instincts. "It's more than that. I gave her everything. A scholarship. Clothes. Books. I let her go back to her dream. I thought it would buy me peace. Gratitude. But instead, she throws it in my face—with that outfit, that stare."
"She's testing you," Mateo said simply. "Testing how much of your leash is real."
Darren stopped pacing, his gaze drifting to the massive glass wall overlooking the glittering sprawl of Las Vegas. His city. His empire.
"I can't afford to lose control," he murmured. "Not with her. She's a variable I didn't account for. A wild card." His reflection looked back at him, sharp and dangerous. "And wild cards destroy systems."
Mateo swirled the liquid in his glass. "Then what will you do?"
Darren turned, his decision already carved into stone. "Reassert control. But not by breaking her." A dark smile tugged at his lips. "By showing her. She thinks she can fight me with defiance. She doesn't understand the nature of the cage she's in."
He sat again, his composure returning like a mask sliding into place. "I'll teach her what control really feels like."
Mateo's gaze sharpened. "Seduction, then?"
Darren's eyes glinted. "Psychological seduction. The kind she won't see coming. I'll make her want the chains she's fighting."
The admission hung between them, heavy and electric. Darren lifted his glass and drained it, the burn of whiskey matching the heat curling low in his chest.
The door opened then, and Carlos entered—quiet, efficient, unreadable. "Sir," he said, holding a folder. "We still haven't identified who leaked the information about Miss Ophelia being in danger. But I think you should see this."
Darren's expression shifted, the heat in his eyes replaced by cold precision. He gestured for Carlos to continue.
Carlos hesitated before laying a few printed photos and call logs on the desk. "The contact who tipped us off… they've gone silent. Their phone's been switched off since that night, and their usual address is empty. No trace."
A muscle ticked in Darren's jaw. "You're saying they disappeared."
"Yes, sir. And what I found—" Carlos slid the folder closer, "—suggests they might've realized someone was watching them."
Darren leaned back, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Convenient."
Mateo nodded. "Almost too convenient."
Silence thickened between them. Then Darren closed the folder, his decision made. "Find them—or find whoever made them disappear. No one feeds me information, then ghosts into thin air."
Darren leaned back, his mind already dissecting. "Two attacks," he murmured. "One chaotic. One surgical. Different motives. Different agendas. Let's diagnose it."
Mateo tilted his head, waiting.
"The sharks," Darren continued, tapping his fingers against the desk. "They're predictable. Greed-driven. They would've kept her alive. Used her as payment just like her stepmother wanted." His tone was flat, detached. "Noise I can manage."
His hand stilled. "But the masked men? Precision. Discipline. They weren't there for ransom. They weren't there for chaos. They wanted her secured, fast, with no witnesses. That kind of operation doesn't happen for debt. It happens when someone valuable is in play. Considering how we still haven't found a damn thing about them"
Mateo's brow furrowed. "Valuable how?"
"That's the question," Darren murmured. He leaned back, gaze distant, ticking through possibilities like cards in a deck. "Either Ophelia isn't who she seems…or someone wants me to believe she's worth more than she is."
Mateo exhaled through his nose. "A setup."
Carlos hesitated. "You think they know about the promise, sir?"
Darren's eyes narrowed. "They wanted to see what I'd do. Whether I'd protect her—or discard her."
Mateo exhaled, understanding dawning. "A test."
"Or bait," Darren replied. His voice dropped to a low, lethal calm. "Either way, they wanted to expose my weakness."
Silence fell again—thick, suffocating.
Darren steepled his fingers, every inch the strategist now. "Double the guards. No one in or out without my word. And start with the stepmother. If she sold Ophelia to the sharks once, maybe she sold her twice."
Mateo rose, nodding once. "And if she did?"
Darren's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Then she'll learn what happens to people who sell what belongs to me."
The air crackled with the quiet violence of his promise.
As the door closed behind Mateo and Carlos, Darren poured himself another drink, his reflection in the glass dark and unreadable.
He told himself this was about control. About stabilizing the variables. About keeping his empire intact.
But as he stared into the amber swirl, he knew the truth.
It wasn't control he was fighting for anymore.
It was her.
And that terrified him far more than any enemy ever could.