Chapter 4
Cassandra
The line curves around the building, a blur of sharp angles and expensive accessories. Sophia bounces on her toes beside me, her excitement infectious despite my attempts to stay cool about the whole thing.
“I can’t believe we actually got passes,” she whispers, clutching the silver chains like they might evaporate. “Do you know how impossible these are to get?”
I do know. That’s exactly why the nervous energy crackling through the crowd feels electric against my skin.
Everyone here wants something—to be seen, to disappear, to find someone worth forgetting about tomorrow.
The mix of anticipation and designer perfume creates a heady cocktail that makes my pulse quicken.
The queue moves with surprising efficiency for such a packed event.
Within ten minutes, we’re standing before the unassuming brick facade that could house anything from a dry cleaner to a Fortune 500 company.
Only the small army of security guards gives away that something significant happens behind these walls.
“IDs and passes, ladies.”
The guard’s voice rumbles like distant thunder. I fish out my license while Sophia produces our chains, holding them up like golden tickets. The guy scrutinizes everything with the intensity of a border patrol agent, his tablet glowing as he verifies our information.
My fingers drum against my thigh. For a club, they certainly take their guest list seriously.
“Wrist out.”
I extend my arm, expecting the usual ink stamp. Instead, he fastens a silver bracelet around my wrist, the metal cool against my skin. A small charm dangles from it—intricate grooves forming what looks like a barcode.
“Every night gets a different code,” he explains in a bored monotone. “Bracelet’s useless after tonight.”
I examine the detailed metalwork. Either this place prints money, or they’re serious about security. Probably both.
I’m about to step toward the entrance when fingers wrap around my wrist like a vise. My head snaps toward the second guard, whose eyes have locked onto the sliver of skin where my tattoo peeks out from beneath my sleeve.
Time stretches. His grip tightens, and something cold slides down my spine that has nothing to do with the evening air. The way he’s staring—it’s like he’s seeing something that shouldn’t be there.
Then he drops my wrist like it burned him.
“You may proceed.” The words come out clipped, professional, but his eyes won’t meet mine as he waves us forward.
Sophia’s hand finds mine, pulling me toward the entrance. “What was that about?”
“No idea.” But my skin still tingles where his fingers pressed, and I can feel his gaze following us into the building.
Somehow, I was absolutely unprepared for the club to be literally underground. My pulse leaps in discomfort.
The entrance swallows us into a narrow hallway that leads to a staircase descending into darkness. I don’t think I could’ve gotten myself to come if I knew this beforehand. The walls seem to press closer with each step, and my chest tightens like someone’s slowly turning a screw behind my ribs.
Breathe, I tell myself. It’s just a staircase.
But my body doesn’t listen. It never does. The familiar panic starts its slow crawl up my throat, turning my saliva to acid. The walls aren’t actually moving closer. I know this logically.
But logic and my nervous system have never been on speaking terms.
Sophia notices immediately. She always does.
“Cass, maybe we should—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “We’re already here.”
She knows about the claustrophobia. She knows about the nightmares, the way small spaces make me feel like I’m suffocating on my own fear. She’d turn around right now, no questions asked, and pretend this was her idea just to save my pride.
I can’t let her do that. Not tonight.
I grab her hand and start down the stairs, my nails probably leaving marks on her palm. Each step feels like descending into a tomb, the darkness pressing against my lungs until I’m taking shallow, rapid breaths that don’t seem to contain any oxygen.
Seven steps, I count. Just seven steps.
But my body acts like we’re walking into a cave-in, like these walls are seconds away from crushing us both. Sweat beads along my neck despite the cool air, and I focus on the thin strip of neon lighting our path because it’s the only thing keeping me from completely losing it.
You could be home, my brain helpfully supplies. In your bed. With all that lovely, unlimited space.
Instead, I’m voluntarily walking into what feels like an elegant coffin, because apparently, self-preservation isn’t in my skill set.
The soft glow ahead grows brighter, and when I finally push through the door at the bottom, the space opens up like a held breath being released. The relief is so immediate I actually laugh—a short, slightly hysterical sound that I quickly cover with a cough.
The club spreads before us like something from a fever dream.
An obsidian bar stretches across the far wall, its surface reflecting the red-tinted light from the chandeliers above.
People move through the space in expensive shadows, their dark clothing creating this illusion of elegant ghosts floating between conversations and cocktails.
Everything whispers money with the kind of understated luxury that costs more than most people’s cars. It’s fascinating to take in. The lighting bathes everyone in that flattering, mysterious glow that makes ordinary people look like they stepped out of a noir film.
“You good?” Sophia asks, and I can hear the real question underneath: Say the word and we’re out of here.
I squeeze her hand, feeling my pulse finally start to slow. “I’m good.”
Her smile could power half of Manhattan. “Then let’s get a drink.”
The bartender, an older, silver-headed man, takes our order with the kind of professional discretion that screams “I’ve seen everything and remember nothing.” I claim a barstool and survey the crowd, watching more people filter in from that narrow entrance until the floor pulses with bodies.
It’s like watching a living painting. Everyone moves with purpose, but the red lighting creates this dreamy quality that makes conversations look like conspiracies and glances feel loaded with meaning.
I’m so absorbed in people-watching that I almost miss the guy approaching Sophia. He’s exactly what you’d expect at a place like this: expensive suit, practiced smile, the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no.
He leans down to whisper something in her ear, and I have to hide my grin behind my glass. Sophia deploys one of her devastating smiles, the kind that’s ended more than a few relationships, and murmurs something back that makes him straighten up with interest.
His gaze flicks to me for a brief moment, lingering somewhere around my chest before he speaks up. “You know, I do have a friend—”
“No thanks.” I cut him off with a pleasant smile, taking another sip of my drink.
He shrugs, turning back to Sophia with renewed focus. She shoots me a look that clearly says Don’t you dare, while my raised eyebrows innocently reply Who, me?
But after five minutes of listening to this walking midlife crisis explain why his Porsche 911 is basically a religious experience, I decide to become exactly the kind of friend Sophia pretends to be embarrassed by. This guy isn’t even rebound-worthy for my stunning friend, and she knows it.
“Enjoy your pest,” I say, sliding off my barstool. “I’m going to run to the restroom.”
The guy’s face twists like he’s trying to solve calculus. “What the fuck did she call me?”
I’m already walking away, Sophia’s diplomatic reassurances fading behind me as I navigate deeper into the crowd, a grin on my face.