The bass thrummed through the polished floor, a physical pulse that vibrated in my molars. From my usual shadowed corner of the VIP section, I watched the sea of bodies on the dance floor below, a swirling mass of anonymity I usually craved. Tonight, it felt like a cage. The ice in my glass of Macallan hadn't melted a degree, a testament to how long I'd been staring without seeing.
"A hundred grand says you can't make her smile."
Luca's voice cut through the music, smug and familiar. He followed my gaze, which, I realized with a start, had not been aimless at all. It had settled, like a homing beacon, on a woman leaning against the far end of the polished bar in the general admission area. She was a study in contrast to the glittering chaos around her: a simple emerald green dress that spoke of quiet confidence, not desperate appeal, her dark hair a smooth fall against her shoulders. She was watching the crowd too, but with an expression of detached analysis, a scientist observing a riot. And she was utterly, completely alone.
"Who?" I asked, my voice deliberately bored.
"The woman in green. She's been there an hour. Hasn't danced, hasn't spoken to anyone except the bartender for a single soda water with lime. She's turned away three men, each with a look that could freeze hell. I don't think she's smiled once." Luca sipped his champagne, a predatory grin spreading. "The great Alexander Thorne, legendary charmer, breaker of hearts, rendered powerless by a single, serious woman. It's almost poetic."
A bet. It was our currency, our sport. Usually, it ignited a familiar, competitive fire in my gut. Tonight, it felt like ash. But old habits, and the need to maintain a facade, die hard. "A smile? That's it?"
"A genuine one. Not the polite, frosty nod she's been dispensing. I want to see teeth, dimples, the whole damn sunrise. And you have to get her name." Luca leaned in. "A hundred thousand. You in?"
I looked back at her. She was scanning the room now, her eyes passing over the VIP roped area with no more interest than she'd give a potted plant. There was a tension in her posture, a watchfulness that didn't belong in a nightclub. It was the same alert stillness I'd seen in my security chief, Marcus. It was… intriguing.
"Two hundred," I heard myself say. "And I get her to have a drink with me."
Luca's eyebrows shot up. "Confident. Done."
The moment the word left his lips, the old persona slid into place like a well-worn suit. Alexander Thorne, playboy, heir to the Thorne tech empire, man who got what he wanted. I pushed off from the plush banquette, the motion drawing glances from the usual contingent of hopefuls clustered near the VIP entrance. I ignored them, my focus a laser on the woman in green.
Navigating the club was second nature. A nod here, a half-smile there, never breaking stride. As I approached the bar, I saw her reflection in the mirrored back wall. Her eyes met mine in the glass a full three seconds before I reached her. She didn't turn.
"Soda water with lime," I said to the bartender, gesturing to her nearly empty glass. "And another, please."
Finally, she turned. Her eyes were a startling shade of hazel, more green than brown under the club lights, and they held no flirtation, no pretense. Just assessment. "I'm capable of ordering my own drinks, thank you."
"I don't doubt it," I said, leaning against the bar, deliberately invading her space just enough to be heard over the music, not enough to be overtly threatening. "But then I wouldn't have an excuse to introduce myself. Alexander."
"I know who you are." She took the fresh glass the bartender offered with a slight, thankless nod. Her voice was low, melodic, but edged with something sharp. "Your picture is in the business section often enough. And the gossip columns even more."
A direct hit. Most people avoided mentioning the tabloids to my face. "Then you have me at a disadvantage."
She was silent for a long moment, her gaze drifting back to the crowd. "Elara."
"Elara," I repeated. The name suited her—uncommon, elegant, with a hint of myth. One part of Luca's bet was already won. "Not enjoying the festivities, Elara?"
"Is that what this is?" She took a sip. "It looks more like a mass ritual of escapism."
I chuckled, a genuine sound that surprised me. "A cynical observation for a woman in a nightclub."
"I'm not here to escape. I'm here to observe." Her eyes flicked back to me. "And you? Are you escaping or observing tonight, Mr. Thorne?"
The question was a needle, probing a bruise I didn't know I had. The truth was, I was always escaping. The pressure of the empire, the ghost of my father's expectations, the hollow echo of my own life. But I couldn't say that. "Maybe a bit of both. Mostly, I was observing you observing everyone else. It was more interesting than the main event."
A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched her lips. Not a smile. A concession to amusement. "I find human behavior in environments like this fascinating. The posturing, the mating dances, the transactions disguised as conversation."
"Transactions?" I prompted.
"Everything is a trade. Attention for validation. Money for companionship. Promises for pleasure." She looked at me fully then, and the intelligence in her gaze was unnerving. "You, for instance, came over here because your friend in the ludicrously expensive watch dared you to. Probably a bet on whether you could get the ice queen to melt. What's the wager? A bottle of Dom? A new car?"
The air left my lungs. She had dismantled the entire situation with terrifying accuracy. The facade of Alexander Thorne, the effortless playboy, cracked. For a second, I was just a man caught out. The shock must have shown on my face because her almost-smile faded, replaced by something colder.
"I see I've hit the mark." She set her glass down with a definitive click. "Tell your friend he can keep his money. The ice queen isn't for sale, and her smiles aren't won on a dare."
She moved to leave, and a panic I didn't understand seized me. It wasn't about the bet anymore. It was about her walking away with that final, dismissive truth.
"Wait." My hand shot out, not to grab her, but to block her path gently. "You're right. About the bet. It was petty and stupid." The admission felt