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CHAPTER 1

RAVEN

T he bass from the speakers pulses through the floor, rattling my bones as I weave through the crowd with a tray of cocktails. My goth schoolgirl skirt swishes with each step, the straps of my corset digging into my shoulders. The air smells like sweat, expensive cologne, and desperation. A guy in a wrinkled suit reaches out to grab my waist as I pass, but I pivot just in time, his fingers grazing nothing but air.

“Hands to yourself, champ,” I toss over my shoulder without breaking stride. He mutters something I don’t catch—probably not flattering—but I’m already on to the next table.

“Kristal for the gentlemen,” I announce, setting the bottle down with a practiced flourish. The table erupts into cheers, their ties loosened, their faces flushed from too much whiskey and entitlement. One of them, a guy with a Rolex that probably costs more than my rent, shoves a wad of cash into my hand. His grip tightens before I can pull away.

“You’re coming home with me tonight,” he says, his voice low and possessive, like he’s already decided I’m his.

I plaster on my best customer-service smile and pull my wrist free. “Sorry, I’m working late.”

His eyes narrow, the kind of look that makes my skin crawl. “I’m not used to not getting what I want.”

I tilt my head, feigning innocence. “Then this will be an opportunity for growth.”

His buddies roar with laughter, slamming their glasses on the table. He glares at me, but I’m already gone, melting back into the chaos of the club. My wrist throbs where he grabbed me, and I rub it absently as I head for the bar.

“Another table of charmers?” my coworker Max asks, handing me a fresh tray of drinks.

“Just your average Tuesday,” I reply, rolling my shoulders to shake off the unease. The guy’s eyes linger in the back of my mind, the kind of stare that makes me check over my shoulder when I leave work. But for now, I push it down. There’s too much to do, too many thirsty assholes to keep up with.

I adjust my corset, take a deep breath, and dive back into the fray. The night is young, and so am I—but not young enough to fall for that bullshit twice.

I grab the champagne bottle by the neck, my practiced fingers cradling it like it’s a weapon. The elevator ride to the fourth floor is brief but stifling, the mirrored walls reflecting my tired eyes and the faint sheen of sweat on my forehead. The higher floors are quieter, the air heavier with money and secrets. I’ve been up here enough times to know the vibe—power, arrogance, and the kind of entitlement that makes my skin crawl. But tonight feels different. Maybe it’s the way the bass from the lower floors hums through the floor, or the way the ceiling seems to press down, daring me to dream about what’s above it. The fifth floor. The forbidden zone. I’ve never been up there, and the staff who work it act like they’ve taken a vow of silence. I’ve always wondered what goes on up there. Private parties? Drugs? Or something darker? My lips curve into a smirk. Maybe one day I’ll find out—just to satisfy my curiosity.

I step off the elevator and head for the table at the far end of the room, my heels clicking against the polished floor. The man sitting there is massive, his broad shoulders straining against the expensive fabric of his suit. He’s leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed but far from casual. His eyes—blood orange, like the sky just before a storm—snap to me as I approach, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. His gaze rakes over me, slow and deliberate, and I feel it like a physical touch, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Dom Pérignon,” I say, my voice steady despite the sudden heat pooling in my stomach. I set the bottle down with a flourish, my fingers brushing the ice bucket as I pull away. “Your evening just got classier.”

His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Class is overrated,” he says, his voice deep and smooth, like whiskey. “But you’re not.”

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. “Smooth. Real smooth.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rich. “I’m not trying to be smooth. I’m just stating a fact.”

I tilt my head, studying him. Most guys at these tables reek of desperation or arrogance, but this one… he’s different. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he holds himself, like he’s not trying to impress anyone. And those eyes—I’ve never seen anything like them. They’re unsettling, but in a way that makes my pulse quicken.

“You’re not from around here,” I say, more to myself than to him.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “What gave it away?”

“The suit. The accent. The… everything.” I gesture vaguely, trying to keep my tone light. “You’re not exactly blending in.”

He laughs again, and this time it feels genuine. “Fair enough. But neither are you.”

I glance down at my outfit—the corset, the skirt, the fishnets. “It’s called a uniform.”

“It’s called distracting,” he counters, his gaze lingering on my legs a little too long.

I feel my cheeks heat, but I keep my expression neutral. “Flattery won’t get you a discount.”

“I’m not looking for a discount,” he says, his tone shifting, growing more serious. “I’m looking for you.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

He leans back again, his smile returning. “You’re not like the others here. You’re… real.”

I swallow hard, my usual defenses faltering. “Real? In this place? That’s a first.”

He doesn’t respond, just watches me with those impossible eyes, and for the first time in a long time, I feel seen. Not ogled, not objectified—seen. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

“Well,” I say, my voice softer than I intended, “enjoy the champagne.”

I turn to leave, but his voice stops me. “Raven.”

I freeze, my heart skipping a beat. How does he know my name? Slowly, I turn back to him.

“How do you?—?”

“I make it a point to know what’s important,” he says simply, his gaze never leaving mine.

I give him a small smile, my mind racing. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea,” he says, and there’s a hint of something in his voice—something dangerous—that quickens my pulse.

I leave the table, my legs unsteady, my thoughts a jumbled mess. Who is this guy? And why does he make me feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall?

I know I should get back to work, but my feet feel like they’re rooted to the spot. His presence is magnetic, pulling me in even as my brain screams danger. I tug nervously at the spiked collar around my neck, the metal cool against my fingertips. It’s always been a statement piece, not a damn invitation.

“You must be a very dominant woman,” he says.

I bark out a laugh, louder than I mean to. “What makes you think that?”

He gestures to my collar, his fingers tracing the air like he’s sketching the spikes. “It’s the mark of a dominant to wear spikes like that.”

My cheeks burn, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the collar digging into my skin. “Oh, I don’t know anything about that,” I say, waving a hand like I can bat the words away. “But since you know my name, it’s only fair you tell me who you are.”

He leans back, that same unreadable smile playing on his lips. “Kirk Stephens.”

The name nags at me, like I’ve heard it somewhere before, but I can’t place it. I narrow my eyes, trying to piece it together. “Football player?”

He shakes his head, amused.

“Pro wrestler?”

Another shake.

I cross my arms, pretending to be annoyed. “Okay, Mr. Mystery, what do you do if you’re not out there tackling people or body-slamming them through tables?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his eyes never leaving mine. “I do a lot of things. I travel, see exotic places, meet interesting people. I make obscene amounts of money, and—” He pauses, his gaze intensifying. “When I’m lucky, I get to make love to a beautiful woman like yourself.”

My stomach bottoms out, and for a split second, I’m dizzy. But then it hits me—that familiar warning bell in the back of my mind. Don’t fall for it. I’ve been down this road before—the charm, the promises, the inevitable crash and burn. Love bombing, gaslighting, abuse. Not again. Never again.

“I have to go,” I say quickly, turning away before I can change my mind.

“Stay.”

The word is a command, not a request, and it stops me in my tracks. His voice carries a kind of authority that makes my knees weak, and I hate how much I want to obey. I hesitate, my back still to him.

He pats the seat next to him, not saying another word. I turn around, my resolve crumbling as I meet his gaze. My legs feel like jelly as I take a step back toward the table.

“Sit,” he commands, and my legs betray me before my brain can catch up. The chair is cool against the back of my thighs as I sink into it, my pulse thrumming like the bassline from the club below. I cross my arms, trying to hold onto some semblance of control. “I really should get back to work,” I say, but the words sound weak, even to me.

He tilts his head, that infuriatingly confident smile never wavering. “Hush now, Raven. You’re a customer service specialist, yes? Well, I’m a customer. Service me.”

My jaw tightens, and I lean forward, my elbows digging into the table. “Hey buddy, I don’t know what kind of transaction you think you made, but all you bought was a bottle of champagne.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and low, like he’s indulging a child’s temper tantrum. It pisses me off , but at the same time, there’s a part of me that wants to claw my way into his good graces just to prove I’m worth the trouble.

“Relax,” he says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I would never presume anything more than your company—which does, more or less, come with the bottle of champagne.”

He’s right, and I hate that he’s right. My job description includes entertaining the guests, keeping them in their seats, and making them spend more money on drinks. Half the girls here sit and flirt their way into bigger tips. But this? This isn’t just business. I shift in my seat, acutely aware of how close he is, how his presence fills the space between us like static electricity.

“What kind of man are you into, Raven?” he asks, his voice cutting through the tension. His eyes lock onto mine, and I can’t look away.

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” I reply, my tone sharper than I intend.

He takes a long sip of his champagne, his gaze never leaving mine. The bubbles cling to the inside of the glass like tiny pearls, and for a moment, I’m jealous of how effortlessly calm he seems.

“Answer me, Raven,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice now, a command that makes my stomach twist in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.

I lean back in my chair, trying to play it cool, but my fingers fidget with the hem of my skirt. “You want a checklist? Because I’ve got a few dealbreakers. Narcissists, manipulators, and guys who think buying a drink means they’ve bought me.”

He smirks, setting his glass down with deliberate precision. “And here I thought I was just making conversation.”

“Conversation is one thing. Interrogation’s another.”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, and the intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch. “Then let’s call it curiosity. I want to know what makes you tick, Raven. What you want. What you need.”

I swallow hard, my defenses rising like walls. “And what makes you think you’re qualified to know?”

His smile softens, and for the first time, it feels genuine. “Because I’m asking. And because I think you’re worth knowing.”

The words hit me like a punch to the chest, and for a moment, I’m too stunned to speak. The club hums around us, the music and laughter blending into a distant buzz, but all I can focus on is him—his eyes, his voice, the way he makes me feel seen in a way I haven’t in years.

I open my mouth to respond, but the words falter on my tongue. Because deep down, I know this is more than just curiosity. And that scares the hell out of me.

The words tumble out of me before I can stop them. “I just want a man who won’t break my heart, or break me.”

My hand slaps over my mouth like it’s trying to shove the confession back in. Heat floods my cheeks, and I can’t even look at him. What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t do this. I don’t spill my guts to some guy in a suit who probably thinks vulnerability is a good look on a bottle girl.

Kirk’s silence is worse than anything he could say. I’m frozen, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm. My heart hammers in my chest, and I can’t decide if I want to run or stay.

“If I knew the villain who hurt you,” he finally says, roughly, “I would tear him in half.”

My head snaps up, and I meet his gaze. Those eyes—they burn with something I can’t quite place. Anger, yes, but it’s more than that. It’s protectiveness, a fierceness that makes my stomach twist. I believe him. I believe he could do it.

“Thanks,” I mumble, because what else is there to say? My voice sounds small, foreign to my own ears. I’m used to being sharp, guarded, but right now I feel like I’ve been stripped bare.

He leans in, his hand brushing mine on the table. The contact is electric, sending a jolt through me. “I would never break your heart, Raven. Or break you.”

My breath catches, and for a moment, I let myself believe him. There’s a tenderness in his voice that cuts through all my defenses. But then I remember—this is how it always starts. The promises, the charm, the slow erosion of everything I am until I’m left with nothing.

Before I can stop myself, I’m leaning in too. His lips meet mine, and it’s like the world stops. The noise of the club fades into the background, and all I can feel is him. His hand cups the back of my neck, gentle but firm, and I melt into it. It’s been so long since I’ve been kissed like this—like I matter, like I’m something worth savoring.

But then the doubts creep in, whispering in the back of my mind. This is too good. Too easy. And when things are too good, they always turn to shit. It’s a rule of my life, written in blood and heartbreak.

I pull away, my chest heaving. Kirk looks at me, confusion flickering across his face. “Raven?—”

“I have to go,” I blurt out, already standing. My legs feel like jelly, but I can’t stay here. Not when I feel this exposed.

I turn and walk away, my heels clicking against the floor. My thoughts are a tangled mess, and I don’t even remember to grab my tip. All I know is that I need to get out of here, away from him, before I do something I’ll regret.