From the shadows of the VIP section, my view of the main stage is perfect. The Luxor Lounge is every depraved pervert’s dream—low, moody lighting, deep panelled mahogany, crystal chandeliers, and naked, sinful flesh everywhere.
This is where she first bared herself to strangers. Where she started down this sordid path.
Fitting that tonight it ends where it began.
Matthew Donnelly owed me a favour. Instead of asking for it, I took it—his credentials to stroll through the door. The chloroform-soaked rag sits in a sealed bag inside my jacket pocket. The service exit I’ve mapped leads to the alley where my car waits—engine running, fake plates installed, windows tinted. Three minutes from exit to interstate. I’ve memorised the security patrol patterns, identified the blind spots in the CCTV coverage. I know which stupid, suited guard takes an unauthorised cigarette break at 11:45.
Her dressing room is the third door on the left down the private corridor. Once previously used by dancers, now reserved for “special performers.” The lock was simple. Child’s play. I left her one last lily, for old times’ sake.
I sip my water, watching the patrons arrive in their expensive suits, pretending this glorified strip club is something sophisticated. They’re all here to see her—my beautiful girl who lost her way. She’s been letting that bodyguard put his hands on what belongs to me, but all that stops tonight.
In less than two hours, she’ll finally be where she belongs—with me.
I check my watch.
It’s almost time.
Tonight, I’ll rescue her from this life she was never meant for. From the men who look at her like she’s something to be consumed. From that Beckett bastard who is stupid enough to think he can take her from me.
It’s poetic, really. Taking her from the place where she first started her disgusting career. A perfect ending to this chapter of her life.
And the beginning of our story together.
Rian Beckett might have revamped the place, but nothing can erase the sordid acts that occurred here. I should burn this building to the ground.
The lights dim. The announcer’s voice fills the space. “Gentlemen, please welcome to the stage… Ruby Fox.”
What?
No.
That’s not right.
Ruby Fox is a British burlesque dancer. Right on cue, she slinks onto the stage, with cheap curves, plastic breasts, barely concealed with a ridiculous red feather boa.
Where is Avery?
I scan the crowd, the exits. This is supposed to be her slot. The advertisements in the members-only emails confirmed it. I even cracked Beckett’s security software to access her schedule.
But she’s not here.
He changed her plans.
He kept her from me.
He played me.
The glass shatters in my grip, crystal fragmenting into my flesh. Blood wells between my fingers, dripping onto the pristine white tablecloth—one drop, two drops, a constellation of crimson stars against snow.
I watch it spread. So red. So pure.
Like the way he’ll bleed when I get hold of him.
I raise my hand to my lips and taste the copper warmth.
It’s a setback.
Disappointing. But he’s only delaying the inevitable.
Plans change. But destiny doesn’t.
