Page 27

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If I had a choice, I’d devote the entirety of my time to hunting down the Brotherhood again.

Unfortunately, obligations must be met, which was how I found myself at the Vault that Friday.

The nightclub had skyrocketed to notoriety since its grand opening five months ago, and an invitation to its Tastemaker nights—which granted attendees early and exclusive access to the best events in food, fashion, literature, and more—was the hottest ticket in town.

As a silent partner, I contributed capital but stayed out of its day-to-day operations. Those fell on Xavier Castillo, the heir to the Castillo beer fortune and now the most powerful name in New York nightlife.

“Good to see you, Vuk.” He slapped a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be happy to hear business is booming. I’ll have last quarter’s reports to you on Monday.”

I nodded, indifferent. My partnership was more a formality than anything else. I didn’t count on it being a major revenue stream, though I was impressed by how well Xavier was running things.

When he first came to me last year with his idea for the Vault, I’d dismissed him. The former playboy had a reputation for frivolity, indolence, and debauchery, none of which were qualities I looked for in a business associate.

However, he’d impressed me with his tenacity and vision for the club. Even after the fire set construction back by weeks, he’d pulled things together in time for its splashy grand opening in the spring.

I’d invested well.

But I wasn’t here to bask in the Vault’s success. Tonight’s Tastemaker event was a coveted first look at Lilah Amiri’s new collection ahead of New York Fashion Week.

Jordan had returned from Rhode Island and asked me to meet him here to discuss an “important matter.” He was constantly trying to get me to leave my house, hence the insistence on meeting at parties and restaurants.

But tonight? I would’ve come even if he hadn’t invited me.

After Xavier excused himself to make the rounds, I scanned the room. It was packed with a who’s who of the fashion world, but I skipped past the nameless models, designers, and magazine editors in search of…

There.

My gaze zeroed in on the corner where Ayana stood with Jordan. They were speaking with a leggy blonde in a blue dress—Sloane, Xavier’s girlfriend and Ayana’s publicist.

A silvery peal of laughter carried over the music and settled low in my gut.

Ayana’s laugh was what had grabbed my attention the very first time I saw her. It was infectious, joyful, and full of life—the antithesis of how I lived my own life.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t stop thinking abouther. And the more I watched her, the deeper my obsession grew, until its vines were so twisted up inside me, I couldn’t hack them off without killing myself too.

Ayana said something that made Jordan grin. He wrapped his arm around her waist and whispered something in her ear. She laughed again, her smile flashing white in the dimly lit club.

I took a deliberate sip of whiskey, my eyes trained on the angle of her body and the placement of his hand.

The alcohol washed down my throat, burning away the toxic green fumes of envy and leaving a bitter aftertaste in their wake.

Seeing her with Jordan was torture; not seeing them and letting my imagination run wild was worse.

Either way, I was fucked.

A group of raucous partygoers quieted as they came near. They skirted around me, giving me a wide berth.

Besides Xavier, Jordan, and a small handful of other people, no one approached me at events. It was exactly what I wanted.

I had little use for small talk and even less use for ass-kissing. I was here for one reason and one reason only.

I tipped my glass back and finished my drink without taking my attention off the couple in the corner.

Jordan said something else to Ayana before leaving her side. His hand grazed her hip on his way out.

The empty glass cracked in my hand.