Chapter 3 – Madeline
I sat cross-legged on the worn leather couch in my tiny apartment, the faint hum of my laptop filling the silence around me.
The space was cramped, the kind of place you’d call “cozy” if you were trying to be polite. The walls were scuffed, the kitchen barely big enough to fit a single person, and the closet had long since been declared a lost cause. But when I’d first come to Vegas a couple of months ago, uprooting my entire life, this apartment had been the only thing within budget that was even moderately worth looking at.
It wasn’t ideal, but it was my space.
I’d never been under any illusions about what choosing journalism as a career meant. It wasn’t a path paved with six-figure salaries or glamorous perks. Camille, my sister, had taken a different road — a prestigious art degree that led to a job with a hefty pay check and the kind of stability I couldn’t even begin to imagine. I was proud of her, of course, but there were moments when the comparison stung.
Unlike Camille, I’d chosen a career that came with substantial financial insecurity.
I did well enough — saved smartly, budgeted carefully, and brought in a decent monthly income from the pieces I published. But it wasn’t what I really wanted. I could always strive for more. For better .
I’d imagined more for myself, something bigger. A byline that carried weight, stories that mattered, and eventually, the financial freedom that came with doing what I loved at the highest level.
Until then, I’d make do with the worn couch and the apartment that didn’t have nearly enough natural light.
Because for all its flaws, this apartment represented something important: a start.
My start.
A search engine window stared back at me, the words Club V Las Vegas history typed into the bar. It wasn’t much of a lead, but I had to start somewhere.
The glossy headlines that popped up were predictable:
Exclusive Playground of the Rich and Powerful
Las Vegas’ Best-Kept Secret
The Club Where Dreams Are Made and Broken.
Each article was drenched in polished PR, the kind that painted the club as a mecca for the wealthy and the ambitious hopefuls trying to rub elbows with them.
It was surface-level fluff, the kind of information that invited curiosity while giving away nothing substantial.
I clicked on a few, skimming paragraphs of glamourised descriptions:
Ultramodern sound systems, unparalleled luxury, and a clientele that includes billionaires, celebrities, and power brokers from around the world.
The photographs that accompanied them showed beautiful people draped in designer clothing, sipping champagne under the glow of decadent chandeliers.
One name stood out, repeated in almost every glowing piece:
Declan Frost.
Even if I hadn’t seen his name before, the context made it clear — Declan Frost wasn’t just the owner of Club V. He was Club V. Every article painted him as a larger-than-life figure, the kind of man whose presence could transform a space and whose reputation preceded him wherever he went. A self-made billionaire with an empire stretching far beyond Las Vegas, Frost was as famous for his ruthless business acumen as he was for his charm.
The photos of him were striking, always the same: dressed in impeccably tailored suits that hinted at obscene wealth, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as if he knew something you didn’t. His green, piercing eyes held a sincerity in them that seemed to invite trust, but if you looked closer, there was something else there — something sharper, colder, like he was always calculating the next move.
Frost’s reputation wasn’t just about the money, though God knew he had plenty of that. It was about power, the kind that couldn’t be bought. His name opened doors, and his influence was palpable, stretching across industries and social circles like an invisible web.
He was the kind of man people didn’t just respect — they feared him, even as they flocked to be in his orbit.
The articles made him sound like a modern-day Gatsby, hosting the city’s elite in a world of decadence and secrecy. Lavish parties, exclusive guest lists, and whispers of deals made under the glow of chandeliers. Yet, as much as the press sang his praises, there was never much substance behind the words.
Frost was always described as “enigmatic,” his business dealings labelled as “complex” or “innovative.” It was the kind of vague admiration that screamed careful curation — he controlled what people knew about him, and he did it masterfully.
What fascinated me more, though, were the gaps in the narrative.
For all the glossy PR, no one seemed to know what really went on behind the scenes. Who was Declan Frost when the cameras weren’t watching? What did he want, and how far would he go to get it?
If the man I’d met — Jaxon Brooks, if the name on the ID badge I’d sneakily glanced at was right — was the guard dog, standing at the gates and keeping people like me at bay, then Declan Frost was the one sitting in the shadows, pulling the strings.
Charismatic, untouchable, and endlessly calculating, he wasn’t just the face of Club V. He was its architect. If there were answers to be found about the club’s secrets, they would lead back to him.
I shook my head, dragging my thoughts away from the enigma of Declan Frost and back to the screen. His name was everywhere, his reputation polished to a high shine. But the more I read, the clearer it became that the man behind the image was far more complex.
I leaned forward, my fingers hovering over the keys as determination settled in my chest.
Frost had built his empire on smoke and mirrors, but nothing was flawless. There were always cracks, and I intended to find them.
I scrolled deeper, past the articles meant for tourists and the Instagram influencers desperate to be seen there. That’s where the real rumours began to surface.
Buried in obscure forums and shady threads, I found the whispers. Discussions about the real Club V — the side hidden from the cameras and the social climbers. A few users claimed that behind the luxury was something far darker. Mentions of illicit high-stakes gambling and private deals made in rooms no one admitted existed. It was unverified, fragmented information, but there was enough to suggest there was more to the club than what its PR machine wanted people to believe.
It was all speculation, but the patterns were clear. Club V wasn’t just an exclusive club for the wealthy. I was really beginning to believe so the more I muddled it around in my head. I just had to find out what was going on.
The deeper I dove, the more a familiar ache settled in my chest.
My father had been the kind of man who played by the rules, and it had cost him everything. No one had fought for him, no one had looked deeper, no one had cared enough to prove he was innocent. If someone had, maybe the truth would have come to light before it was too late.
That wasn’t going to happen here.
I closed the laptop with a soft snap and leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. My thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the broody security guy.
Jaxon.
Gruff, sharp-eyed, and exasperating as hell. He had this way of sizing you up in an instant, like he could see right through you, and still have time to make you question every decision you’d ever made.
He was all bark with just enough bite to make you take him seriously.
I hated to admit it, but I’d been drawn to him the moment he stepped into my path.
There was something magnetic about the way he carried himself — disciplined, like a man who thrived in chaos because nothing could rattle him. He wasn’t just confident; he was unshakable.
Men like him didn’t stumble. They acted and left you to get out of their way or face the consequences.
And then there were his eyes — dark, narrowing in suspicion as though he could see the truth, that I had worked so hard to conceal.
He wasn’t the kind of man you ignored, and my body had definitely noticed him in ways I didn’t have time to dwell on. His eyes were set deep beneath a strong brow, their intensity sharpened by the faint shadow of stubble that framed his jawline. His features were sharp and angular, every line of his face cut like it had been chiselled from stone.
He wasn’t just tall; he had the kind of broad-shouldered build that made him impossible to miss. His black button-up shirt clung to his chest and arms in a way that hinted at strength, discipline, and a lifetime of hard work. There was nothing soft about him — not his appearance, not the way he moved, and definitely not the way he looked at me.
The way his sleeves were rolled up, exposing forearms that were as rugged as the rest of him, only made things worse. He exuded an effortless masculinity that wasn’t about show; it was about presence.
His presence had been overwhelming, to say the least.
The worst part? He’d called me “ Scout .”
A single word, offhand but deliberately chosen, like he’d pegged me as a rule-bending troublemaker from the start. It stuck with me, the way his voice had dipped slightly when he said it. It wasn’t just a nickname — it was a challenge, a dare to prove him wrong.
That was what made it so irritating — and thrilling. The way he stood his ground as if daring me to try slipping past him. The tension between us had been sharp and electric, and pushing his buttons felt like playing with fire.
I let out a groan, dragging a hand over my face. “Get it together, Madeline,” I muttered.
He wasn’t the point. The club, the story, the secrets – if there were any and I wasn’t completely delusional — those were what mattered.
Still, I couldn’t stop replaying the way he moved, the way his voice had taken on that low, clipped edge that left no room for argument. And yet, I’d enjoyed pushing against that edge, seeing the faint tick of his jaw as I threw my playful retorts back at him.
For someone so controlled, he had a surprising fire beneath the surface, barely restrained but unmistakable. Maybe that was why it had felt so exhilarating — because for all his gruffness and discipline, there was something undeniably human about him.
I shook my head, forcing the thoughts aside. No matter how attractive he was, no matter how his voice lingered in the back of my mind, this guy was off-limits. I couldn’t afford distractions — especially not ones wrapped in authority and smirks.
I had a job to do, and I wasn’t about to let anyone — least of all him — derail me.
Standing up, I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair, the worn denim soft under my fingers. My thoughts churned, heavy with the weight of everything I had read. The research had given me a glimpse of something bigger, something that pulsed beneath the glittering surface of Club V like a hidden heartbeat.
It was a nexus, a place where power changed hands, and rules didn’t apply.
Too many questions hung unanswered, and the only place I was going to find them was back inside.
I had no damn leads.
It was infuriating.
I needed to get back in there, do more than I had done the other day, but not like before. I’d stumbled my way through the first visit, relying on sheer nerve and quick thinking. That wouldn’t cut it now. I needed a better approach, a plan that went beyond charm and feigned confidence.
I slipped into my jacket, the weight of it grounding me as I moved to the small mirror near the door. My reflection stared back, steady and resolute.
If I was going to do this, I had to commit fully. There was no room for hesitation, no room for fear.
I adjusted my collar and grabbed my bag, my steps quick as I headed toward the door. The questions swirling in my mind felt heavier with each step, but they drove me forward.
Who was pulling the strings at Club V?
What deals were being struck in the shadows? And most importantly — how far would they go to keep those secrets hidden?
I paused for a moment at the threshold, taking a steadying breath. Whatever I was walking into, I wasn’t going to stop until I uncovered some form of truth.
With that thought steadying me, I opened the door and stepped out, my resolve as sharp as the cold night air that greeted me.
Club V wasn’t just a destination — it was my battlefield.
And me?
I was ready for round two.