Page 29

My heels click softly against the polished wooden floor, creating a gentle rhythm as I carry the silver tray toward the dimly lit alcove.

Hands steady. Face neutral. That’s what Sofia advised.

Smile when spoken to, keep your eyes down, and never linger too long unless they ask you to.

Her words echo in my mind as I approach.

The VIP curtain hangs partially open, revealing a glimpse of the opulent interior. The sultry strains of jazz hum beneath the low thrum of conversation, a melody that weaves through the air like a whisper. With each step, my heart pounds harder, a drumbeat that resonates in my chest.

The voices inside the alcove are low, masculine, imbued with a confidence that borders on dangerous. I draw in a deep breath, steadying myself, and step through the curtain. My eyes locked on the bottle rocking unsteadily on the tray.

The first thing I register is the palpable weight of their attention, a force that seems to press against me. One man speaks of business, his voice smooth and cold, while the other listens with an intense, unbroken silence.

I glide to the table, gently leaning forward to place the scotch down, careful not to disturb the delicate balance of the glasses on my tray, which jingle faintly like distant chimes.

And that’s when the silence shifts, a sudden vacuum as if the air has been drawn from the room. I glance up, my gaze captured by a figure in the shadows.

And freeze.

It’s him.

Ares Russo.

Fucking Christ.

He sits there, draped in shadow like a king on his throne, his eyes locked onto mine with the intense focus of a man who’s either been blindsided or set ablaze. His presence is magnetic, commanding, and I feel the room shrink around me.

My mouth goes dry, and my fingers instinctively tighten on the tray. I know I should say something, offer a smile. But I’m rooted to the spot.

And so is he.

His eyes remain locked on mine, unwavering and unblinking, as if I’ve stumbled upon something sacred or shattered something fragile.

The intensity of Ares Russo’s gaze is not that of a man simply observing a girl with a tray.

No, it’s a look that carries the weight of betrayal, or perhaps something even more unsettling that I can’t even name.

A lump forms in my throat, constricting my breath, and my skin feels searingly hot under the dim, ambient lighting.

My heart races with an urgency I despise, a physical betrayal that hints at guilt where none should exist, at least not really.

Yet, despite this turmoil, I find myself unable to hold his gaze for much longer.

I force myself upright, ignoring the prickling heat that trickles like fire ants up my spine.

Without uttering a single word, I pivot sharply on my heel and stride out of the alcove, maintaining an air of defiance.

My head remains high, chin firmly set, the tray steady in my grip.

I refuse to look back. I have nothing to feel guilty for. I haven’t done anything wrong.

But even as I walk away, I can feel the weight of his stare on me, like a shadow, dark and predatory, with edges as sharp as teeth.

I don’t stop walking until I’m behind the staff doors and out of view. My breath is shaky. My hands feel ice cold. The tray still clutched against my chest like a damn emblem.

Why the hell do I feel like I just got caught cheating?

It doesn’t make sense.

I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m just working. Just serving drinks in a club filled with strangers. That’s all.

But the way he looked at me…like I’d somehow betrayed him. Like I belonged to him, and he wasn’t aware I’d been put on display.

The worst part is... it felt like betrayal, and I hate that it does.

I set the tray down, palms sweaty, stomach tight. The pit forming in my chest only grows as the seconds tick by.

Sophia rounds the corner, already halfway to the bar when she sees me.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Can you take over Table 7?” I ask, voice low and tight.

Her brows rise. “That’s VIP.”

“I know. Just...please. I need a minute, and I can’t go back out there.”

She hesitates, eyes scanning my face.

“Jordyn, what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I lie. “I just… I need you to cover me. You can keep my tips, and I will owe you. Please? ”

Sophia nods slowly. Doesn’t ask again. Just grabs the tray and hands me hers before she disappears back through the curtain like it’s nothing.

But I know better.

Because somewhere on the other side of that velvet, Ares Russo is still sitting there. Likely scowling. And I can feel his eyes on me...even when he’s not there.

I close my eyes and press myself back against the door. “Fuck.”

I do my best to try to shake it off.

Come on, Jordyn. Focus on the job. Keep your head down and keep moving. Everything is fine.

But every time I turn, I feel him.

Not just watching... tracking . Like his eyes have weight, and they’re pressing into me from across the room.

I move between tables, tray balanced on one hand, smile locked in place.

My feet ache. My shoulders burn. But it’s nothing compared to the heat crawling up my spine.

I catch him in the reflection of the back bar mirror.

Still seated in the alcove. Still very composed. Very Ares Russo.

But he’s not listening to the man across from him anymore.

He’s watching me.

Always.

Our eyes lock for a second, and it’s enough to make my steps falter. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away. It feels like a warning. Like a silent promise of what I couldn’t tell you, but it’s enough to rattle me.

So much so that I don’t even realise the shards of broken glass on the tray Sophia handed me. Not until I reach for it—still not looking—and the shard slices across the pad of my thumb.

I wince as the sting pulses through me, glancing down to find blood beading at the edge of the cut.

Across the room, Ares shifts. Barely. But it’s enough. A flick of his jaw, the faint narrowing of his eyes, like he felt it before he saw it.

I drop my gaze, suck the blood off my finger and walk faster, praying the music will drown out the thunder in my chest, but it doesn’t matter where I move, I still feel him behind me.

Every shift of air. Every time I bend to serve a drink, every laugh I force out at some drunk idiot’s comment… It’s like Ares is right there, breathing down my neck, judging every second I pretend I don’t feel it.

By the time the shift nears its end, I’m trembling inside my own skin.

I haven’t seen him leave. And I don’t know which would be worse, if he’s still here. Or if he’s already lurking somewhere, waiting for me.

I can say one thing for certain: I don’t like the feeling of unease gnawing away in my stomach.

When I walk out of Eden, it’s almost past two in the morning. My eyes scan the area, and I heave a sigh when I don’t see anyone, though I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching me.

My pulse races with a relentless urgency.

Each step I take toward home feels like I am descending deeper into an elusive abyss, an unknown that eludes description.

My body aches with exhaustion, my mind a chaotic whirlwind, and I cannot escape thoughts of him, the intensity in his gaze, the way it felt like I was on trial without even knowing my crime.

Yet, he didn’t come after me like I expected him to, didn’t utter a single word, and somehow, his silences feel even more haunting.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I allowing a man to make me feel like this? Who is Ares Russo to tell me what I can and cannot do? I would question why he would even care, but the look in his eyes, his entire demeanour, told a different story entirely.

By the time I reach the manor, the air hangs cool and tranquil, enveloping the space with an eerie calm. The silence inside presses in on me, palpable and unnerving, like a breath held too long.

I slip through the front door of the manor. Even forgoing a drink of water. My sole focus is my room, my sanctuary, where I can collapse into bed and pretend this night never happened.

I push the door open, and a cloak of darkness greets me. Stillness. Solitude. A fleeting wave of relief washes over me until I step inside and close the door behind me.

That's when I hear it. A voice, low, steady, and laced with a dangerous calm. “How long were you planning to hide from me, bambina?”

My breath catches, the air sticking in my lungs. As my eyes adapt to the darkness, I finally see him... seated in the corner of the room, partially veiled in shadow. His legs splayed, forearms resting casually on his thighs, he exudes an air of ownership over the very atmosphere surrounding him.

My spine locks up.

For a second, I almost convince myself I imagined it, that the voice in the dark was just my guilt taking shape. But then he moves. He steps out of the corner like he’s peeling himself from the shadows, slow, deliberate, each motion calculated like he wants me to feel the weight of it.

And God, I do. Every fucking inch of it.

My trembling fingers find the switch to the small night lamp in the corner by the door, and I flick it on.

Ares doesn’t even blink as the soft glow spills into the room, casting just enough light to pull him out of the dark—but not enough to soften him.

Ares’s is still dressed in black, but his jacket has been discarded. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms carved in tension and tattoos, veins sharp beneath skin like violence lives just under the surface.

The silver buckle of his belt catches the pale slice of light from the lamp. His boots are silent, soundless on the floor.

But it’s his eyes that stop me cold.

Not wild or cruel.

Just…watching.

Burning.

Like I’m something that belongs to him, and he’s trying to figure out who gave me permission to forget that.

The air thickens. My skin prickles. A hum starts in the back of my neck and trails down my spine like electricity building toward detonation.