Page 25 of Dirty Little Secrets

W alking up to the bar, I can tell something’s wrong. Julian looks pissed, pointing at the others, while the bartender shakes his head.

“What’s going on?” I ask, raising my voice above the music.

Julian turns to face me. “They won’t serve me.”

“Why not?”

Now I get why he was gesturing to everyone else nursing drinks. I check the time—last call isn’t for another two hours.

He points at the bartender—the one who put me and Kristina on the list. “He said they cut me off.”

I glance at the bartender. He looks young, barely twenty-one, but the narrowed expression he aims at Julian tells me he’s not budging. Maybe he just won’t serve Julian. No way he’ll refuse me, especially if he knows Kristina.

I squeeze between Julian and a man with his back to me. “Hi,” I say to the bartender, giving my most convincing smile. “Can I get two Mai Tais, please?”

His eyes soften a little, but his voice stays firm. “Sorry, I can’t serve you or Kristina for the rest of the night.”

“And why is that?”

“Boss’s orders.”

“See?” Julian says, annoyed. “I can’t believe this. Is there a manager?”

“I am the manager.”

I glance around the club, searching for a familiar pair of dark eyes, ready to give him a piece of my mind. But Xaiden is nowhere in sight under the shifting lights. I don’t even need another drink—I just hate that he’s controlling my night off. He has no right. I’m a big girl. He’s not my keeper.

I glance back at the bartender. “Can you call him?”

“I cannot.”

I roll my eyes and offer Julian an apologetic look. “I’m sorry.”

He checks his watch, an obvious excuse not to look at me. “Look, I gotta go. It was nice meeting you.”

I watch him walk toward his twin, who’s still dancing with Kristina. He says something, the twin nods, and then excuses himself, leaving her on the dance floor alone.

What a bunch of assholes.

I whirl around. “Tell your boss I said he’s an asshole.”

I’m not about to tell him Xaiden is technically my boss. But I need to say it—need to get it off my chest since he clearly doesn’t plan to show his face and probably told them not to call him… since he’s with his date .

“Why don’t you tell him yourself?” the bartender says, jutting his chin.

A jolt of electricity shoots up my spine.

I don’t need to turn around to know he’s standing right behind me.

I swallow thickly and it’s not from the alcohol.

I turn slowly and meet dark eyes, a sharp jaw, and every woman’s fantasy wrapped in a tailored suit.

His black shirt is open at the throat, revealing the “X” tattoo I want to snake my tongue over.

The fabric is tight across his muscled arms and chest, tucked neatly into black designer slacks.

There’s no question—he’s hot. And dangerous.

A real threat to any woman’s ovaries.

“You wanted to see me?” he says above the music.

“Why did you cut us off?”

He leans in, his cologne begging me to taste it, but I remind myself: he sees Nori, not Red. “Because you’ve had enough to drink.”

“How would you know? And besides, who are you to tell me what to do?” I challenge.

“I’m the owner of this club.”

I laugh like he’s lost his damn mind, wobbling slightly in these ridiculously high heels. “What are you going to do, cut off every woman here tonight?”

“No.”

“Then why me?”

“Because you’re my employee. You’re in my club and it’s my responsibility.”

I snort like a rebellious teenager. “I’m a big girl. Last time I checked, I don’t have a daddy.”

I shoulder past him, heading back to the dance floor.

I hate that he’s right—I didn’t need another drink.

My feet stopped hurting ten minutes ago, which means I’m beyond buzzed.

Another Bad Bunny song starts. The crowd swells.

Kristina’s dancing with a new guy, and I don’t even need to look back to know Xaiden is watching my every move.

Something inside me stops caring that he’s my boss. Under normal circumstances, it would be wildly inappropriate the way I move my body to the rhythm of the beat—knowing full well he’s watching.

When I turn, I hit something solid. He must not give a damn about his date, wherever she is. Not with the way his eyes roam, slow, deliberate, down my body, pausing at my chest, my waist, my thighs.

I sway my hips to the music, careful not to touch him, leaving only a fraction of space between us.

One bump from the crowd and I’d fall into his chest. His eyes never leave mine.

The longer he watches, the darker they get.

The bolder I become. But the spinning lights make my legs lose coordination.

Strong arms catch me before I stumble, guiding me toward the exit.

I’m about to protest when I lose sight of Kristina.

“Bash will make sure she gets home safely,” he says.

I want to tell him Kristina’s place is my home, but he doesn’t give me a chance.

One minute I’m on the dance floor, the next I’m in the passenger seat of his luxury supercar, the hum of the engine replacing the club’s music.

I blink, trying to piece together what just happened.

My life feels like it skipped a couple of scenes.

“Where—”

“When was the last time you ate?” he interrupts, like a concerned parent.

I try to remember, but all I can recall are vending machine snacks.

“I had lunch at work.”

“Snacks from the vending machine don’t count as lunch, Ms. Summers.”

I wince as the streetlights stab at my headache. “Will you stop that?”

“Stop what?”

“The controlling. The… ‘Ms. Summers,’” I mock in his voice.

“I’m not controlling.”

“Oh, buddy, yes you are. How do you know what I had for lunch? Or how much I drank? Or—” I stop short. I can’t exactly call him out for being controlling during sex without explaining myself. But I think he gets it.

“I need to know where my employees are. Especially my secretary.”

I twirl a strand of hair around my finger, trying not to lose it. The last thing I need is for him to start really watching me for obvious reasons. Especially since I’m the one hacking into his security system.

“I get it. Wait… where’s your date?”

“I sent her home.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have to discuss my personal life with you.”

“But you can cock-block mine?” I snap.

He pulls over, parking casually on the side of the road like the NYPD doesn’t apply to him. We’re in the middle of Chinatown, outside a dimly lit restaurant.

He raises a brow. “Cock-block?”

“Yes. Maybe I wanted to sleep with that guy you rudely refused to let buy me a drink.”

He snorts. “You weren’t going to. And he had other ideas.”

He’s right. As drunk as I am, I didn’t plan on sleeping with anyone especially when I can’t stop thinking about him as Red.

Tonight was my escape. From Brent. From the guilt. From the lies. He doesn’t deserve what I’m doing behind his back. I feel like shit for doing.

He’s the only man who’s ever defended my honor, and I’m betraying him.

The passenger door swings open before I can even ask what he’s doing.

“Why are we here?” I ask, stepping out as the city lights ripple in my vision.

“You need to eat,” Xaiden says, already rounding the car. “You’ll regret it in the morning if you don’t.”

I glance up at the building. The sidewalk outside is quiet, the windows dim except for a soft glow pulsing behind a thick red curtain.

“It’s closed,” I mutter.

“No,” he says, his hand already at the door. “It’s open.”

Warmth hits me as we step inside the restaurant. The air is thick with the scent of sesame oil and garlic, something sizzling in the distance. The lighting is soft, not dark, but calm—like the kind of place that whispers instead of shouts.

The restaurant opens into an interior split by a cascading water feature set into the ceiling.

Thin streams fall like rain, a quiet hush beneath the low music playing somewhere in the walls.

The air smells of steamed rice, sweet soy, and grilled meat, and the glow from hidden lighting reflects against lacquered cherry blossom wallpaper.

To our left, a sign in elegant script reads Chinese Cuisine. To the right: Thai & Japanese Fusion. The floor is polished black tile. Each table is made of deep mahogany, set with precise chopstick placements and folded linen napkins. It’s quiet, serene, like stepping into another country.

A man in a pressed black chef’s jacket appears from the back. He beams when he sees Xaiden and speaks to him in quick, confident Mandarin. Whatever he says earns a respectful nod, and then he gestures for us to follow him deeper inside.

We’re led to a hibachi table tucked in a semi-private alcove. A polished steel grill gleams beneath the overhead vent, and the chairs are wide, plush, and far too expensive for me to ever justify on my own.

“Sit,” Xaiden says, already pulling out one of the chairs for me.

I lower myself cautiously. “Why here?” I whisper.

“Because,” he says, smoothing his sleeves as he sits across from me, “you need real food. Not vending machine snacks.”

I raise a brow, watching him unroll his napkin and place it on his lap with maddening precision. “You ate earlier—with your date.”

“I lost my appetite.”

“But now you’re hungry?” I tease.

He doesn’t smile. Not right away. Instead, his gaze lands on me—sharp, dark, unwavering.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m hungry now.”

Before I can overthink that, the chef returns with a silver cart. Raw lobster tails, thin-sliced beef, shrimp, scallops, vegetables glistening from their rinse, mounds of sticky rice, and pats of real butter—all laid out like an offering.

“Welcome,” the chef says in accented English, then bows.

I sit up straighter as he clinks two spatulas together and turns the knob under the grill. Heat blooms across the table, and a thin sheen of oil glistens on the surface before he flicks a lighter and sends a flash of fire rolling across it.

I jump slightly.

“It’s alright,” the chef says with a small smile. “Part of the show.”

Xaiden doesn't flinch, he just sits back, letting the firelight dance across his tattooed forearms as the chef tosses scallions and scrambled eggs onto the hot steel.

The sound is intoxicating, sharp sizzles, the metallic rhythm of tools tapping, the layered scent of garlic, ginger, and seared protein coating the air.

“Is this place even open?” I ask, still wide-eyed.

“Not to the public,” Xaiden says, casually sipping his water. “But yes. For us, it is.”

I glance around at the empty restaurant. “How did you?—?”

He gestures at the chef with a small nod. “I own it.”

My mouth opens slightly. I take in the black lacquered walls, the serene trickle of the waterfall, the precision in every corner of the space.

“You… own this?”

He nods once, like it’s just another bullet point on a list of things he controls. My mind reels. I try to imagine the kind of man who can snap his fingers and open an entire restaurant in the middle of Chinatown just to make sure a girl eats after a night out.

The kind of man who knows when you're about to fall and catches you before you do.

After the meal—after I feel like I might throw up a lobster—we head back to his car. He drives like a Formula One racer. I try not to stare at his hands on the wheel, remembering how they’ve touched me.

I shift in my seat.

“Cold?” he asks.

I’m burning.

“No.”

He turns on the radio. Fall Back by Lithe plays softly.

My eyes grow heavy, sleep settling in my bones. I turn my head toward him, watching the shadows play across his face, tracing every sharp line of his jaw.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “The food was… amazing.” I yawn. “It was my first time.”

I don’t know if he hears me. I tell myself I’m just going to close my eyes for a second—just until he gets me home.