Chapter 6 – Madeline
The note arrived late, slipped under the door of my tiny apartment like a thief in the night. I almost missed it, too absorbed in the glowing screen of my laptop, tabs open to half-researched leads and whispers of truths I was chasing about Club V.
The faint scrape of paper against the floor pulled my attention, subtle but sharp enough to pierce through the low hum of my desk lamp.
I froze, my fingers hovering above the keyboard as my ears strained for sound.
Nothing stirred — no footsteps, no creak of a retreating floorboard, no shuffle in the hallway. The quiet felt unnaturally heavy, the kind that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
My heart pounded hard against my ribs as I stood, the familiar cocktail of fear and curiosity tightening around my throat. It was well past midnight, the clock on the wall ticking like a quiet metronome, a stark reminder of how deep I’d buried myself in this rabbit hole.
I crossed the room slowly, my instincts urging caution with each movement. The light from my laptop cast long, jittery shadows across the walls, amplifying the oppressive silence.
The envelope lay just inside the door, plain and unmarked except for my name scrawled in blocky, efficient letters across the front.
My name. Not “Resident” or “Occupant.”
Whoever had sent it wanted to be sure I knew it was meant for me.
There was no return address, no stamp, no indication of where it had come from — or who had delivered it.
I hesitated, my stomach twisting into knots as I bent down to pick it up.
My fingers brushed the edge of the paper, but I didn’t open it right away. Instead, I scanned the room again, as though expecting someone to materialize from the shadows.
The silence pressed in on me, suffocating and thick, the faint hum of the city outside feeling impossibly distant.
Sliding my thumb under the flap, I pulled out a single sheet of paper, the crispness of the fold suggesting it had been handled carefully.
My breath hitched as I unfolded it, the words staring back at me like a slap to the face:
“Stop digging, or you’ll regret it.”
My stomach twisted into knots, the sharp edges of fear scraping against my ribs. My first instinct was to glance toward the windows, my eyes darting to the shadows beyond the thin curtains.
Whoever had sent this knew where I lived. That alone was enough to set every alarm in my head blaring.
Had someone followed me home?
I read the words again, slower this time, trying to analyse every detail — the blocky handwriting, the choice of phrasing.
Nothing about it gave me anything to work with. It was clean, calculated, meant to send a message without leaving a trace.
Fear crept in, cold and unrelenting, wrapping itself around my chest. But it didn’t stay long. Something hotter, sharper, and far more dangerous replaced it: defiance.
They knew I was looking. They knew, and now they wanted me to stop.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips as I stared at the note. Did they really think this would scare me off?
Did they think a single piece of paper with a vaguely threatening line would make me give up?
I carefully folded the note and tucked it into the drawer of my desk, sealing it away like a talisman of their mistake. \
They didn’t know me at all.
If anything, this wasn’t a warning to stop — it was confirmation that I was getting close to something . Too close for their comfort.
Adrenaline coursed through me as I returned to my desk, the words from the note still echoing in my mind. I stared at my laptop screen, the open tabs filled with everything I’d found about Club V and its enigmatic owner, Declan Frost. Each fragment of information felt heavier now, more charged with meaning.
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to think. If they were watching me, if they’d gone as far as to leave a note, it meant I needed to be smarter. More careful. But backing down? That was never going to happen.
I leaned back in my chair, the weight of the night settling over me as I tried to make sense of it all. For every question I answered, ten more seemed to spring up in its place.
I wasn’t chasing a story anymore. This was personal now.
Whoever sent that note wanted me to feel small, powerless. They wanted me to believe I was in over my head.
Over my dead body.
I’d been underestimated before, and I knew exactly how to use that to my advantage.
I wasn’t backing down.
Determined to channel the unease into something useful, I turned back to my laptop and resumed my research.
Names, dates, social media profiles — it was all a giant puzzle, and I was trying to fit the pieces together, no matter how scattered or incomplete they were.
Quinn Carson had intrigued me from the start. She was sweet, friendly, and had a way of disarming you with her easy charm and glitter-dusted grin. That didn’t mean I could rule her out entirely.
For all I knew, her bubbly exterior could be a well-crafted front.
Part of me hated digging into her life after we’d struck up such a good bond on our first meeting - especially since she’d shown me nothing but kindness.
Her online presence was as vibrant as she was in person. Her Instagram was a kaleidoscope of glittery outfits, quirky selfies, and candid shots from nights out with friends.
One picture showed her laughing in a sequined dress, holding a tray of drinks with a caption that read:
Serving looks and champagne — tip your girl!
Another was of her on a hiking trail, her face flushed from the effort, but still smiling like the world was her playground.
There wasn’t a single red flag to be found, no hint of anything that suggested she was involved in anything shady.
In fact, the more I read, the more certain I felt that Quinn wasn’t hiding anything at all. She seemed genuine, even if the world she worked in was anything but.
She was pure sunlight—warm, bright, and impossible to look away from.
I couldn’t ignore how quickly we’d hit it off. The night I went to the club, she had found me later in the evening, sashayed up like we’d been friends for years, and blatantly just… gave me her number.
No pretence, no awkwardness — just Quinn in all her confident glory.
She had snatched my phone right out of my hand, her fingers flying over the screen as she said, “Here. Text me if you want a proper tour guide for this crazy place. Or if you need someone to save you from any champagne sharks. I’ve got your back, babe.” Then she winked, handed my phone back, and disappeared into the crowd like a glittery whirlwind.
I hadn’t hesitated to use it.
Our text conversation had been easy, surprisingly so, like we’d known each other since the womb instead of mere hours.
Quinn : So. You survived Club V. Are you officially hooked on the glitter and glam yet?
Me : Hooked is a strong word. Let’s go with… cautiously intrigued.
Quinn : Good answer. You’re learning. I’m proud.
Me : Thanks. I assume that means you’re officially my mentor in all things nightlife now?
Quinn : Oh, absolutely. Lesson one: Glitter is mandatory. Always. Lesson two: Heels are optional, but you better be ready to fight someone about it if you ditch them.
Me : Noted. So, does lesson three involve surviving the champagne they practically shove at you?
Quinn : Lesson three: Never trust the bubbles. They go straight to your head and straight to bad decisions.
Me : Bad decisions, huh? I’ll keep that in mind.
Quinn : Do that. Also, flattery will get you everywhere, darling.
Me : Is this the part where I tell you I think you might be the wisest person I’ve met in Vegas?
Quinn : Naturally. But don’t get too carried away — I’ll start expecting daily compliments.
I couldn’t help but smile at the memory of her texts. Quinn had been a bright spot in an otherwise murky world, and I was surprised by how much I already liked her. She was funny, unfiltered, and real in a way I hadn’t expected from someone in a place like Club V.
Liking her didn’t mean I was going to stop looking.
As I pulled up more files, I shifted my focus to Sean Weston.
His name kept surfacing, a common thread I couldn’t ignore. Conversations I’d casually struck up with staff had revealed the same thing:
Sean was well-liked, known for being a hard worker and popular with the patrons.
The compliments seemed almost too neat, too rehearsed, like the kind of things people said when they didn’t have much else to offer. “Hard worker” and “popular” were nice enough descriptors, but they didn’t tell me anything about who he really was — or what he might be hiding.
It made sense, though. Sean was the kind of person who stayed in the background, visible enough to be approachable but not so much that you’d think to look deeper. He seemed like the perfect employee: dependable, capable, and just the right amount of charming to make patrons feel at ease.
What stood out most during my deep dive into Sean Weston’s online presence — thanks to the helping hand of my colleague back in New York, Tim, and his uncanny knack for digging up what others missed — was his connection to Jaxon. They weren’t just colleagues at Club V; they shared a military background.
Go figure.
In hindsight, it should have been obvious. Everything about Jaxon screamed military—the sharp precision in his movements, the way he seemed to always know what was happening around him without appearing to look, and that quiet authority he carried like a second skin.
He wasn’t just the club’s head of security; he was a fortress. Unshakable. Unrelenting. The kind of person you instinctively trusted to stand between you and the world when things got messy.
But Sean? Sean was a different story altogether.
Tim’s research turned up hints of Sean’s military service, scattered like breadcrumbs. There were photos on long-forgotten profiles, brief mentions in local news archives, but then came the gaps. Entire stretches of time wiped clean.
Tim even unearthed a grainy photo from a military reunion forum — Jaxon and Sean, younger but unmistakable, standing shoulder to shoulder in their fatigues.
The look in their eyes was the same as it was now: determined and also burdened by something too heavy to put into words.
Jaxon’s military history explained a lot. The intensity in his gaze. The way he seemed to size up every room like he was calculating threats. Even his gruff demeanour — like he’d learned the hard way that keeping people at arm’s length was safer for everyone.
The guy was built like a wall, all broad shoulders and sharp angles, a presence that demanded attention without asking for it. “Big old brute” didn’t even begin to cover it.
He had the kind of aura that made people step aside, whether they realized it or not.
The pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together, but the picture was far from complete.
The more I uncovered, the more I realized just how much there was to untangle. And if I wanted to get to the heart of it, I’d have to be smarter, quicker, and maybe just a little bolder.
Men like Jaxon and Sean didn’t just let people into their world. If I was going to figure out what tied them to the secrets of Club V, I’d have to find a way to get through those walls.
Or at least, find a crack big enough to slip through.
I leaned back in my chair, chewing the inside of my cheek as the pieces danced just out of reach.
Quinn might have been an innocent bystander, but Sean and Jaxon? They were threads that needed pulling.
My phone buzzed, snapping me out of my thoughts.
Quinn: Hey, you free tomorrow? I’m off the clock during the day, so let’s grab lunch at the club. It’s way more relaxed before the madness starts.
I smiled at my phone, shaking my head. Even through a screen, Quinn had a way of making me feel lighter, like the weight of everything I was digging into could be put aside, even just for a moment.
Me: Lunch at C.V.? That’s a side of the place I haven’t seen yet. Count me in.
Quinn: Perfect. I’ll give you the daytime VIP experience. You’ll love it.
Me: Sounds good. I’ll be there.
Despite everything — the note, the constant tension of looking over my shoulder, and the nagging suspicion that danger was closer than I wanted to admit — I was genuinely looking forward to seeing Quinn.
She had this way of making everything seem a little lighter, like even the heaviest problems could be set aside for a moment.
It wasn’t something I realized I’d been craving until she offered it so effortlessly.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt like I might actually be making a connection with someone. Quinn wasn’t prying or overbearing; she was simply… herself.
It was refreshing in a way I hadn’t expected, especially after weeks of immersing myself in a world There was still the guilt. The dull ache of knowing my reasons for being in her orbit weren’t entirely pure.
She didn’t know why I was here, what I was chasing. But I couldn’t walk away from her either.
I’d always had trouble making connections — real ones, the kind that went beyond small talk and polite smiles. It wasn’t that I didn’t want them; it was just easier to keep people at arm’s length, easier to protect myself from disappointment or betrayal.
With Quinn, it felt different.
Lunch at the club offered more than just an opportunity to spend time with her. It was a chance to see the place in a new light — stripped of the glitz and chaos of the nighttime.
Daytime at Club V would be quieter, more vulnerable, the staff and spaces less guarded. It might reveal clues I couldn’t spot in the middle of a packed crowd.
I told myself that’s why I’d agreed to go. That it was just another step in my investigation. But deep down, I couldn’t deny that part of me wanted this to be about more than work.
Maybe, just maybe, spending time with Quinn would remind me that not everything had to be part of the hunt. That there was still room for something genuine, even if it existed in the middle of a labyrinth of a thousand little white lies.
Still, I couldn’t let myself get too comfortable. No matter how real Quinn felt, no matter how much I liked her, this wasn’t just about friendship.
It couldn’t be.
The secrets of Club V were bigger than anything else right now, and if I was going to uncover them, I couldn’t afford to let my guard down — not even for her.
Even so, as I set my phone down and glanced at the note tucked away in my drawer, a flicker of determination sparked in my chest.
If someone wanted me scared, they were going to have to try harder. I wasn’t backing down. Not from them, not from the club, and not from the truth I was chasing.
I was onto something. And this note I’d received? That was proof enough. It wasn’t just a warning — it was a confirmation, a neon sign flashing saying You’re right, Maddie!
Fear? Sure, it was there, coiled tight in my chest, whispering all the reasons I should walk away. But alongside it was something stronger, something sharper—the need to know .
Someone was scared of what I might find.
That only made me more determined to find it.