Chapter 4 Daisy #2
“Absolutely. Though I have to admit—I overheard you outside with the doorman. First time here for me too.” He offered his hand to Jenn. “Richard.”
“Jenn.” She shook his hand. Then he turned to me.
“Daisy.”
“I’m here with cousins, some friends, a few colleagues. Why don’t you join us in the lounge? Best seats in the place. And tonight, our table has access to the club’s new signature cocktails—only served tonight, and they’re worth it. Don’t worry, we’re a relaxed bunch. What do you think?”
“I don’t know…” I murmured.
“Come on, Daisy. That sounds like fun.” Jenn’s eyes begged me to agree.
“All right.”
Richard led us to a wide, semi-circular sofa already filled with people.
“Everyone—this is Jenn and Daisy. Met them at the bar. First time here, so they should get the best spot.”
Polite nods. A few smiles. A man with dark blond hair stood, hand out, charm practiced but not forced.
“Mark. Nice to meet you.”
“My cousin,” Richard added.
A blonde woman beside him lifted her glass, smile warm. “Sit. We always welcome company. Tried the special cocktails yet? They’re fantastic. I’m Satina.”
“Jenn.”
“Daisy.”
Several drinks later, we were sunk into conversation with Satina, Mark, and Richard.
We spoke about our work, though I kept my own vague.
The mood turned easy, light. For once, I let myself relax.
Still, Damian Miller pressed into my thoughts.
What would he think if he saw me here, in his club? He’d probably shrug.
One man drew my attention. His stare locked on me—sharp, fixed. Athletic build. Presence heavy enough to shift the air. Without asking, he rose and sat beside me. The lounge’s easy rhythm tightened.
“May I ask with whom I have the pleasure?”
“Daisy Elfhorn,” I said. “And this is my friend, Jenn Morinski.”
“Dominic Santares.” His handshake was firm, grip deliberate. Heat crawled under my skin beneath his stare.
“Dominic is my cousin’s boss,” Richard cut in.
Jenn’s eyes went wide. “You’re the Dominic Santares?”
“In the flesh.”
“I knew it. Santares Industries—global player in the art market. Traditional and digital pieces, private collections, auction houses worldwide.”
“Well read,” he said, one eyebrow lifting, clearly impressed.
“I read an article about you in the New York Times. On the train.”
Dominic gave a faint smile, head tilting in acknowledgment. “A pleasure to meet you both. Enjoying the evening?” His gaze never left me.
“We are,” Jenn answered.
Richard leaned toward Dominic. “Jenn studies veterinary medicine.”
“There can never be enough veterinarians,” Dominic replied.
While Jenn and Richard talked, I drained my glass and set it back on the table.
“And how does one build an empire like Santares Industries?” I asked.
Dominic’s grin widened. “By combining passion with business sense. By taking risks, refusing to give up, always keeping the bigger picture in mind.”
Fervor edged his voice, almost reverent, binding him to the art he spoke of. It held me there, captive. He lifted his glass, swirling the liquid slow and deliberate.
“And what about you, Daisy?” His gaze pinned me, as if I were a rare painting. “What do you do for a living?”
“I work in an antiques shop.”
His brow lifted, genuine interest sparking. “Antiques? Then we’re practically colleagues.”
“I catalog the pieces, analyze their origins, document their histories. It’s about dragging their stories back into the light.”
“That sounds remarkable. You must have a true appreciation for culture.”
“I do. I studied art history. Every piece has its past. My job is to preserve those narratives.”
“A guardian of the past,” he said softly, pouring champagne into a glass and sliding it to me.
“Thank you. And what draws you to the art world?”
Dominic leaned back, sipping slow. “For me, art outlives time and space. A language without end. Understood no matter the century. Every piece carries emotion, every brushstroke speaks of the era it came from. Each one a window into another world.”
“That’s… beautifully put.” I hated that he impressed me.
I told him about some of my favorite works. He listened closely, questions sharp, attention fixed. Conversation flowed, glass after glass. He never let mine stay empty. I let myself get pulled under his passion for art—until the alcohol caught up, clouding me, blurring the edges. I’d had too much.
Jenn had vanished with Richard to the dance floor, leaving me alone with Dominic. He’d shifted closer—so close our legs touched. His arm stretched across the back of the couch. If I leaned back, I’d fall into him.
Charm or not, he unsettled me. His gaze, his cadence, the way he edged into my space. Heat from the alcohol flushed through me, tangled with unease, as his hand drifted to my knee, my thigh, pulling back, then returning again. My head swam. Dread swelled with the dizziness.
“Not feeling well, Daisy?” His voice cut low, knowing. His hand slid back onto my thigh and stayed there. His thumb traced circles into my skin.
“I’m fine,” I lied, forcing steadiness. My nerves frayed. I needed space before it broke me, but my body felt heavy, pinned. Like a game I hadn’t agreed to play. This wasn’t flirting — It was pressure. A game I was already losing.
“Could I have some water, please?” My voice cracked.
Dominic leaned in, breath at my ear.
“Of course. But first—fresh air.” His hand pressed harder on my thigh, holding me in place.
“A bit of air would help,” I admitted.
He rose smoothly and pulled me up, his grip firm on my arm. He led me through the club to an elevator that carried us to the upper floor.
“There’s a terrace.”
He steered me into a dim lounge that opened onto a balcony. The night air cut cool against my skin, clearing my head, if only a little.
Moments later, Dominic returned with water.
“Better?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
Silence stretched, the night pressing calm into me. But when we stepped back inside, Dominic sank onto the couch and dragged me down beside him. I stumbled, caught myself, only to feel him close in again. His knee brushed mine. His arm pressed against my back—unyielding.
“You really are a beautiful woman, Daisy,” he whispered, his hand sliding to the nape of my neck, fingers digging beneath my hair.
I shivered, panic tightening in my chest. Instinct screamed. I shot upright.
“We can go back downstairs now.”
He seized my arm and yanked me down hard onto the couch.
“I can think of something better.”
I tried to rise again. He leaned in, close, threatening.
His hand clamped on my shoulder, weight heavy, crushing.
“My rules apply here, Daisy,” he growled, voice low, his fingers already at his belt.
My heart slammed.
“I would disagree.”
The voice cut through the air like cold steel. Time slowed. I turned my head. Dominic froze. Damian Miller stood in the doorway. His steps were measured, almost soundless—the silence of a predator that knows the kill is already decided. His eyes fixed on Dominic, blades behind glass.
“Is everything all right, Miss Elfhorn?” His voice was calm. Too calm.
My mouth opened. Nothing came. I could only shake my head.
Dominic twisted his mouth into a crooked grin. “Damian, relax. We were just talking. Do me a favor and give us a little privacy.”
“She is not available to you,” Damian said evenly. “Miss Elfhorn works for me.”
“So what?” Dominic spat.
Damian stepped forward. Jaw tight. Muscles coiled under skin. His face gave nothing away, but the silence between them crackled. It thrummed through me, firing every nerve.
I pushed myself off the couch. “I was just leaving,” I said, voice unsteady. “Mr. Miller… thank you for being in the right place at the right time.”
He nodded once, eyes fixed on Dominic. I walked fast to the elevators, trying to steady my breath. The back of my neck burned as if his gaze followed me.
“Miss Elfhorn.”
I stopped and turned.
“Come to my office,” he said. Calm. Final.
For a second, I thought of refusing. Then I sighed and followed him until the door clicked shut. The music and chatter below clipped away with that soft click.
The room was dim. A massive mahogany desk dominated the space. Behind it hung a shadowed painting of Charon, ferryman of the dead, pale figures reaching from the dark like lost things. The air pressed against me, heavy and close.
Damian leaned on the desk’s edge, watching. I stayed near the door, as if it might still open.
“First,” he said, “welcome to my club.”
“Thank you.”
“And second—what were you thinking, going into a private lounge with Dominic Santares in your state?”
“I wasn’t thinking.” I swallowed. “He offered fresh air and water.”
“Did he touch you?”
“He pushed me onto the couch… and then you came in.” The words came out small.
Damian’s mouth flattened. The pause after his breath felt long, like he was weighing whether to return downstairs and finish what Dominic had started.
“Did you know this was my club?”
“No.”
“And how did you get in?”
“My friend Jenn knows someone who let us in.” I lied. I wouldn’t give Ference away.
A flicker of a smile ghosted his lips—quick, unreadable. “I’m surprised to see you in a place like this.”
I raised a brow. “Why would that surprise you?”
“You strike me as someone who prefers books and antiques to late nights in New York clubs.”
“Maybe.” I forced my eyes to meet his. “But even I need a break sometimes.”
“I understand. Still… here?”
“What makes this different from the others?”
“This club,” he said, “is a crossroads for the elite. Deals. Alliances. Almost everyone here holds power. Someone like you should be careful.”
“Are you any better than they are, Mr. Miller?”
“No. I am not. Never claimed to be.”
Something inside recoiled. His gaze held me—dark and merciless.
“I should go back. Jenn’s probably worried.”
“That would be wise.”
My body would not move. I stood rooted, caught between two pulls. Everything screamed go. Something else wanted me to stay. Wanted me at any cost.
“How did you find me?” I asked.