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“You should. Mischa’s drugs killed her. And you let him in.”

His gaze cuts past my shoulder. When I follow the owner’s eyes, a hulking security guard nods to me.

“Go with him,” the owner says.

I stiffen. “Where?”

He doesn’t answer.

The hairs on my neck lift in warning, but I want to know where this leads. Maybe he’s decided he’ll talk to me after all.

I follow the security guard, my hand tightening on my phone to signal my own security.

We’re heading through the halls, and it’s quieter after the door to the club closes behind us. When we reach another door—a VIP room I remember from my tour when I arrived—the security guard opens it and holds it wide. I have no choice but to step inside.

The room is the size of a hotel suite, velvet furniture and curtains. A booth is along the far end, a bar on the wall nearest, but it’s the man at the center that draws all of my attention.

Mischa sprawls along the largest couch, wearing black trousers and a white shirt. His legs stretch in front of him, and there’s a woman on either side of him. If they’re not twins, they’re doing a damned good impression. One is completely naked, the other topless. They’re brunettes, unlike his fiancée.

Armed security watches from either corner of the room. They’re not club guards either. These men look hard, and they don’t move except for their eyes.

“Miss Madani.” Mischa’s lips curl.

My breath is shallow as I stop in front of the coffee table littered with pills and powder.

“If I’d known you were coming to my show, I would’ve played something for you.”

“Believe me, I was more than affected.” His eyes are blue, but gray-blue, like a dead sky.

I wonder what he sees. What he thinks about that makes him treat people like commodities.

“It’s a great club,” I say.

“That’s why I’m buying it.”

I whirl around to see the owner by the door. His face is downcast.

Mischa rises, ignoring the hands of the women trying to drag him back, and steps around the table.

“You’ve been moonlighting. At Harrison King’s club no less.”

Of course he knows about Debajo. It was all over social media, and though there are no new photos of us, there are conversations online speculating about Harrison and me getting back together.

If Mischa brought me here to hurt me, or to use me against Harrison, I wish he’d get the hell on with it.

“He made me an offer. Besides, my contract isn’t exclusive. I play where I want. If that means you’re not interested anymore?—“

“On the contrary. You were glowing. I can’t imagine a single woman in that filthy basement didn’t want to be you or that a single man didn’t want to own you,” the Russian says smoothly.

He stops inches away. Close enough I smell his cologne.

“Meaning what?” I force the words through my tight throat.

The first time I met him, he hit me. I have no doubt he’ll do that again, or worse, if it suits him.

We’re not in Harrison’s club anymore. This isn’t even neutral ground—security is his, and the man by the door won’t stop Mischa from doing anything he wants.

He brushes my hair behind my shoulder. Every inch of me tenses when he leans in, but I refuse to tremble.