The Watchman (House of Hearts #1)

Chapter 1 – Madeline

The air inside Club V thrummed with a potent kind of energy, the kind that didn’t just settle on your skin — it sank in, curling around your ribs like smoke.

It whispered promises of indulgence and danger in equal measure, a seductive pull that drew you in whether you wanted it or not.

I stepped through the entrance with measured confidence, the sharp click of my heels swallowed by the plush red carpet beneath my feet. My movements were calculated. If anyone noticed me — and people always noticed in a place like this — they’d see exactly what I wanted them to see: another thrill-seeker caught up in the allure of Vegas’ most exclusive playground.

The room unfolded before me, an intoxicating blend of elegance and excess, like stepping into a waking dream — if dreams were spun from gold, velvet, and secrets.

Chandeliers hung high overhead, their crystals refracting the light into sharp prisms that danced with the bassline of the music. The floors gleamed with polished marble, a testament to wealth and refinement, every inch of the space designed to dazzle and disorient.

Clusters of patrons lounged on leather settees arranged with deliberate carelessness, their laughter bubbling over like champagne. They sipped from glasses filled with cocktails that shimmered like liquid gems, the ice cubes catching the light like tiny prisms.

Every face in the crowd seemed sculpted with purpose — confidence etched into sharp cheekbones, lips curved in practiced smiles, eyes filled with something darker, sharper.

Opulence dripped from every corner, but so did something else. Something less tangible but more alluring. The air wasn’t just alive with wealth; it was charged with mystery, with the unspoken knowledge that beneath the glittering facade lay shadows no one dared to speak of.

I moved through the crowd with practiced ease, my expression composed.

The black dress I wore clung in all the right places, a subtle statement that balanced elegance and allure. It wasn’t about standing out; it was about blending in — seamlessly weaving myself into the fabric of wealth and glamour that defined this place.

Blending in was key.

A journalist who stood out didn’t get very far, especially not in a place like Club V.

Here, standing out made you a target. Being invisible, forgettable — that’s how you found the cracks.

But God, was it hard to stomach.

This wasn’t me. The glittering chandeliers, the designer shoes, the unspoken competition of who could flaunt their excess with the most finesse — it all felt alien, suffocating even. I wasn’t one of these people, and I didn’t want to be. The gaudy luxury of the club prickled at my skin, like wearing an outfit that didn’t quite fit.

I grew up in hand-me-downs and thrift store finds, in a home where “luxury” was a coupon for dinner out once a month.

The wealth here wasn’t just foreign — it was obscene . People dripping in diamonds and sipping drinks that cost more than a month’s rent on my old apartment. It was a different world, one where a woman’s worth seemed measured by the height of her heels and the cut of her dress.

None of that mattered. For the sake of the story, I could be anybody. A chameleon, sliding into their world and wearing their mannerisms like a second skin. If blending in was what it took to capture the essence of Vegas nightlife, then I’d play the part.

I’d laugh at their jokes, sip their overpriced champagne, and pretend the shimmer of Club V’s allure didn’t overwhelm me. This place wasn’t just exclusive — it was mythical , the kind of venue that lived in whispers and curated Instagram feeds.

If I had to be the confident socialite, the bored heiress, or the thrill-seeker chasing a new high, then that’s who I’d be.

I wasn’t here to make friends or lose myself in the glamour. I was here to do what I did best — observe, adapt, and blend into the fabric of their world without a ripple. No matter how foreign it felt, I’d find my footing. After all, this wasn’t about me. This was about capturing the heartbeat of a nightlife scene that most people only dreamed of glimpsing.

I passed a table where laughter spilled over like champagne bubbles. Their easy camaraderie was a stark contrast to the flutter of unease twisting in my chest. Outwardly, I mirrored their casual air — a small, knowing smile here, a subtle flick of my hair there — but inside, my mind raced, cataloguing every detail.

The VIP lounge loomed ahead, separated by a sleek glass wall. It wasn’t the barrier that kept most people out — it was the unspoken aura of exclusivity, the presence of staff trained to spot anyone who didn’t belong.

The only reason I’d even gotten through the front door was months of preparation, every step meticulously calculated and rehearsed.

For weeks, I’d researched Club V, combing through every scrap of information I could find. Social media posts, society columns, whispered reviews from nightlife insiders — anything that painted a picture of this fortress of indulgence and status. I studied the dress code with forensic precision: labels, fabrics, and cuts that screamed “effortless wealth.”

My editor would want the opulence, the decadence, the escapism that only a club like this could provide.

I’d deliver.

The backstory I’d spun for myself was airtight — or at least, I hoped it was. Months of digging had unearthed just enough details to craft a persona: Madeline Hart, my real name, but beyond that, it was a patchwork of bent truths and fabricated ambition.

Tonight, I was an aspiring art dealer from out of town, here to explore Vegas’ elite scene while scouting potential connections for an elusive new gallery project. It was the kind of story that didn’t need much embellishment — the kind of lie that thrived on just enough detail to make it believable.

A sprinkling of sophistication, a dash of mystery, and enough charm to keep anyone from asking too many questions.

Polished, ambitious, harmless.

It was all I needed to get past the bouncer at the velvet rope, whose hawkish eyes had scanned me up and down before finally waving me through.

Even that moment had been a gamble. My heart had pounded as I handed him my ID, and though my smile hadn’t wavered, I’d felt the weight of his scrutiny. He didn’t ask questions, thank God, but I’d been ready with answers for everything — the gallery’s name, the artists I worked with, even a fabricated story about a collector I was supposedly meeting tonight.

Getting inside had been the first victory, but there were no guarantees. The moment someone got suspicious, the moment anyone questioned why I was here, it could all fall apart. One wrong move, one misplaced word, and security would escort me out faster than I could explain myself.

I took a steadying breath. No room for fear now. I’d worked too hard to get here, sacrificed too much to turn back. The weight of my borrowed identity hung heavy on my shoulders, but I carried it anyway. If it got me closer to the truth, it was worth it.

As I neared the lounge, I caught sight of him through the glass — a man who radiated an air of quiet authority that sent a ripple of unease through me. His broad shoulders hunched slightly as he leaned toward another man at a low-lit corner table, the shadows playing across his sharp features. I didn’t know his name or what role he played in Club V’s inner workings, but there was something about him that set my teeth on edge.

Maybe it was the way he carried himself, a confidence that wasn’t for show but rather born from knowing he had power. Or perhaps it was the intensity in his expression, a look that hinted he wasn’t here to enjoy the club’s frivolities.

Whatever it was, he didn’t fit in with the glittering crowd of trust-fund socialites and high-rolling gamblers.

No, this man was different. Calculating.

My steps slowed instinctively, the magnetic pull of curiosity overriding common sense. He wasn’t the type to end up in glossy society pages, and that made him exactly the kind of person worth paying attention to. Whoever he was, his presence alone seemed to ripple through the lounge like an unspoken warning:

Don’t get too close.

I told myself it was just my imagination, that I was assigning meaning to a man who happened to look suspicious. But deep down, I knew better. People like him didn’t just happen into places like this — they thrived here, in the shadows, pulling strings the rest of us couldn’t even see.

Whatever he was involved in, it didn’t seem good.

Casual, Mads. You’re supposed to belong here.

I slipped into the shadows just outside the entrance, positioning myself close enough to catch fragments of their conversation. The pounding bass-line of the club made it hard to hear, but a few phrases managed to cut through the noise.

“…cleaning numbers…” The man’s voice was low and sharp, each word weighted with authority and irritation.

“…tight deadlines. If they catch on—” The other man’s response was abruptly cut off by a sharp, humourless laugh that sent a chill up my spine.

I didn’t know who they were or what they were talking about, but the tone alone told me it wasn’t anything innocent. The clipped precision of their words and the tension lacing their voices spoke of high stakes. Whatever was happening here, it wasn’t just business as usual.

The words sent a chill up my spine, though I couldn’t yet piece together their meaning.

Cleaning numbers? Tight deadlines? The cryptic phrases were exactly what I’d hoped to find, and yet, hearing them filled me with dread.

I leaned in, desperate for more, when the man’s head turned slightly. For one terrifying second, his sharp eyes swept dangerously close to my position, sending my heart racing.

Abort. Now.

I forced my feet into motion, gliding away from the lounge as though nothing had happened. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my expression didn’t betray the chaos inside.

Eyes forward, shoulders back, you’re just a patron exploring the club.

When I was safely back near the bar, I let out a shaky breath and grabbed the first champagne flute I saw. The bubbles stung my throat as I downed it, my mind racing.

So, this place did have rats.

For the hundredth time probably that day, my father’s face flashed in my mind — weathered and weary, lined with years spent fighting against a system that didn’t care about the truth.

My father had believed in justice. He’d believed in me, too, even when no one else did.

I gripped the empty glass tighter, the cool surface pressing into my palm as a surge of determination coursed through me.

The Hart name had been dragged through the mud because of men who thrived on deceit, who built their empires on the backs of the innocent and discarded the wreckage without a second thought. People who had no qualms about erasing lives and reputations as long as it served their ambitions.

The world didn’t care about the truth, but I did. That was probably the reason I went into journalism in the first place — to peel back the glossy layers and reveal what was really there. To hold a magnifying glass to the stories that mattered, the ones people wanted to ignore.

I wasn’t naive enough to think I could change the world, but I believed in the power of words, in their ability to uncover, to connect, to make people see.

Which was why this assignment felt like such a slap in the face.

When I’d transferred to the Vegas office, I’d expected the move to come with challenges — but also opportunities. Breaking stories, investigative pieces that exposed corruption or shone a light on untold stories.

Instead, my boss had saddled me with this nightlife fluff piece , the kind of assignment that felt more like a punishment than a stepping stone.

“Write about the nightlife scene,” she’d said with a dismissive wave, like she was tossing a bone to an overeager intern . “Vegas has this whole vibe — you know, exclusivity, indulgence, that kind of thing. People eat it up.”

It was insulting, really. As if I’d packed up my life and moved across the country just to play the part of a lifestyle columnist, waxing poetic about overpriced cocktails and designer shoes. I wanted substance. Depth. Stories that meant something.

Instead, here I was, sipping champagne at Club V, pretending not to notice the way the air buzzed with unspoken rules.

The assignment was simple enough — paint a picture of the Vegas nightlife scene, highlight the exclusivity and charm of its most elusive venues, and make the readers feel like they were living it. It wasn’t supposed to be hard. And yet, standing here in the glow of the neon and glitter, I couldn’t shake the gnawing sense that there was more to this place than met the eye.

I’d tried to argue my case with my editor, tried to explain that I didn’t move here to write fluff pieces. She’d just raised an eyebrow and said, “Madeline, this is what sells. Do the piece, and maybe next time, I’ll give you something meatier. Consider this your initiation.”

Initiation. Right .

She’d said it with a clipped tone that left no room for debate, but I couldn’t ignore the slight softening in her expression. It wasn’t the first time she’d taken it easy on me since I’d transferred to Vegas, though she’d never outright acknowledged it. Everyone at the office knew why I’d made the move — knew about my father’s passing just a couple of months earlier.

They didn’t say much, but I could feel it in the way they treaded lightly around me, as if I might shatter if they pushed too hard. My editor was no different. She probably thought she was doing me a favour, handing me something low-stakes and glossy, something that wouldn’t demand too much of me while I adjusted to a new city and a new reality.

But that was the thing about grief — it didn’t let you “adjust.” It didn’t care about timelines or fresh starts. It clung to you like a shadow, creeping into the quiet moments when you thought you’d finally outrun it.

Moving out of state had been my way of trying to outrun it. Starting over in Vegas had felt like the right choice, a chance to reinvent myself in a place where no one knew me as “Madeline Hart, the daughter of the wrongly convicted man who died behind bars.”

Here, I could just be Madeline. A journalist, a professional , someone who didn’t flinch every time the past came up.

Even with the distance, it wasn’t that simple. Grief wasn’t a thing you could leave behind; it had a way of seeping into everything, even a damn fluff piece about nightlife.

Maybe my boss thought I needed time to find my footing. And maybe she was right. But that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.

I hadn’t come here to take it easy. I’d come here to rebuild, to prove to myself that I was still the person who could dig up the truth, who could write the kind of stories that mattered.

Fine , I’d play along.

I’d deliver the sparkling prose and the insider’s take on a world most people only dreamed of stepping into, but I wasn’t blind, and I wasn’t about to waste an opportunity. If there was a story hidden beneath V’s gilded exterior, I’d find it.

Because the world didn’t care about the truth, but I did. And even if this wasn’t the story I’d wanted, I wasn’t going to let it slip through my fingers.

Not yet.