Chapter 3
3
The sudden clatter of a glass flute hitting the floor cuts through the pounding music, jerking every head toward the sound as it rolls across the tiles.
The group falls silent, save for the red-faced server kneeling before the flustered governor, apologizing frantically.
“Whoops! I’m so, so sorry,” she exclaims, pouting up at him. She snatches a discarded paper napkin from the table and begins dabbing at the growing wet stain on his thighs.
“Oh no, it’s everywhere. I’m such a stupid klutz,” she cries, her voice high and strained with distress.
Paul looks like he’s about to explode, but the frantic, delicate movements of her hands as she tries to blot the spill with flimsy napkins make him freeze. His anger fades, replaced by confusion, then lust.
Everyone watches, captivated, as the scene unfolds with an unexpected erotic edge. Even Will, briefly roused from his drugged haze, stares intently, hands tightening on the dancer’s hips.
Another napkin is offered to the server. She snatches it with a hurried “thanks” and returns to Paul’s lap. One hand braced on his thigh, the other glides over the damp fabric with careful precision. Each motion brings her dangerously close to the swelling beneath his pants. Gentle presses along his inner thigh draw low groans from Paul, his restraint fraying.
The air hums with tension as she hovers along the line, never quite crossing it.
“It’s all right,” he rasps, husky, covering her hand with his own and anchoring it near his knee. His other hand grips the leather arm of the chair, betraying the intensity of his arousal. She continues fussing over the spill, her innocent gestures only heightening the charged atmosphere, until she finally excuses herself to fetch paper towels. As she rises, pressing her palm briefly between his legs, Paul lets out a low, frustrated whine, eyes tracking her retreating form, half-lidded and wanting.
A few minutes later, a new waitress appears, clearly annoyed. Her painted red lips pull into a scowl aimed squarely at him as she sets his remade drink down with a loud thud.
“Here’s your drink, again, sir,” she says curtly. “The other girl had to step out for some air. We’re short-staffed tonight, so please be patient while I tend to the other tables.”
She radiates the kind of energy that makes it clear she wouldn’t hesitate to punch Paul if he so much as breathed wrong.
As the minutes pass, the mood at the table shifts. The timid server has made a clean escape, and she isn’t coming back. The horny predators, who spent hours taunting her in hopes of drawing tears, have only left themselves frustrated. They fidget, scroll through phones, and murmur, debating whether to call it a night or continue the party at Will’s place.
Paul subconsciously palms the tent beneath his soaked pants, eyes scanning the light Friday-night crowd for the vanished waitress, the one who never quite managed to tell him no.
After a stretch of awkward silence, broken only by scraping chairs and a few muttered goodbyes, Max excuses himself. He heads toward the dimly lit corridor leading to the men’s restrooms. Along the way, he catches a glimpse of Will slipping out with the same dancer clinging to his arm, as if he’s her golden ticket.
Will throws up a lazy salute, flashing a lopsided grin in Max’s direction.
“Sweetest of dreams, Maxi-Pad,” he jeers, before disappearing out the back door with his arm candy.
Inside the restroom, Max splashes his face with cold water, trying to shake off the night. He pats himself dry with a few napkins, then lingers in front of the mirror.
Staring back at him are dark, exhausted eyes.
“I wanted a future where you’d be able to look in the mirror and like the man reflected.”
His father’s words echo in his mind, rasping and invasive, filling every corner of his thoughts.
The idea of liking himself feels foreign. Strange.
Max has accomplished so much in the last half-decade, yet the void inside him still feels overpowering, especially when he’s alone.
Even so, as he finally emerges from the restroom, slowly pushing open the wooden door, he finds himself hoping that everyone is already gone.
It’s a perplexing paradox: hating being alone yet also hating being around people.
At the rear service entrance of Club Velvet, the heavy metal door groans on its hinges as it swings open. An irate Lila storms down the steps into the dim, narrow side passage, grumbling under her breath. Out of her club uniform, she’s dressed in ripped denim shorts and a graphic sweatshirt. She clocked out earlier than usual, relieved to be done for the night after scrubbing the restrooms and finishing everyone else’s side work as punishment.
What annoys her even more than dealing with a table full of jerks is the smug look Tony gave her on his way out, like he’d known she’d fail all along.
All that over a rejection. What a loser.
Desperate to wash off the invisible grime clinging to her skin, she heads towards one end of the passage, towards a busier street at a brisk pace. Her fingers tighten around her belongings as she sidesteps trash bins and delivery crates that line the passageway. She needs to reach the bus stop before the next ride pulls away. The last thing she wants after a brutal shift is to stand around for another half hour in the dark.
But halfway down, she freezes. A familiar face emerges at the far end, halting her in her tracks.
“Hey there, sweetheart! You drenched me.”
Her heart rate spikes. The man who had led the taunting all night leans casually against the exposed brick, hands stuffed in his pockets. A cold wave of dread rolls through her.
“I’m so sorry about that. It really was an accident,” Lila says quickly, furrowing her brows and frowning, forcing her features into something resembling remorse. Pretending to regret the cocktail spill isn’t easy, but she hopes she can pull it off.
Still, a tight knot coils in her stomach as she wonders if he knows that she’d dumped the drink on him just to get away. She wants nothing more than to keep walking, but anxiety roots her feet to the pavement.
The man appears to be in his sixties, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair swaying as he staggers in place. She briefly considers bolting but doubts he’ll let her pass without incident. Lila knows better than to underestimate drunks.
She stands her ground, studying him closely. His pudgy, alcohol-reddened face glows with heat, rounded cheeks flushed. His glassy eyes struggle to focus as he staggers a step closer, and the sharp, sour scent of liquor wafts over her, suffocating.
She grimaces, inching backward, silently asking herself how it all went wrong.
All because of that damn drink.
If she’d known it would lead to this, she would’ve insisted Tony let her leave earlier.
Has he been waiting for me?
The thought chills her. She swallows hard, throat tightening, and bravely holds his gaze.
“Enough about the suit,” he says, his voice casual but his eyes gleaming with something that makes her uneasy. “Even though it’s my first time wearing it out, things can be replaced. My feelings, though, are very hurt. You said you’d be right back, but you just up and left me.”
“Sorry,” she replies, her tone clipped and cold.
“Ha! Look, I’m just teasing ya, cutie. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” He laughs, wiggling his neatly trimmed eyebrows. “This—” he gestures at the wet stain on his pants, “we don’t have to worry about anymore.”
She forces an airy laugh, but her eyes remain anxious. She glances back at the metal door, silently wishing someone would appear. It locks automatically and has no external handle. She is effectively trapped.
There should be hidden cameras, right? she thinks, scanning the narrow passage. But it’s too dark to see anything clearly.
“I hope you still get some of the money despite your massive fuck-up,” the drunk man slurs, eyes gleaming as he drinks in her discomfort. “Sure hope it won’t all just go to the other one. She was a mean bitch, that one.”
She keeps her smile plastered on, feigning gratitude. “Oh, the gratuity will be split.”
“I’m not done talking yet,” he snaps.
The sharpness in his voice cuts through the night, wiping the smile clean off her face. Anger bubbles up inside her, but she stays silent. Though he towers over her, she lifts her chin, refusing to look afraid. She can’t shake the feeling he’s waiting for an opening. Like a starving lion, he’s ready to pounce the second she shows an ounce of weakness.
He sways as he reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out a black leather wallet. Extracting a couple of bills, he staggers forward and thrusts them toward her.
“Here’s something on top of the tip my friend gave you.”
She stares down at the cash, unsure. His casual display of wealth doesn’t impress her; his intoxicated presence unnerves her far more.
“Go on now. I don’t have all night. I’m not getting any younger, you know.”
“Thanks,” she murmurs, reaching out to take it.
But as her fingers curl around the bills, his other hand darts out and clamps around her slender wrist. He yanks her toward him, the sudden motion pulling a startled shriek from her lips.
“There’s more of this if you want,” he whispers loudly into her ear, breath reeking of alcohol, burning her nose. “A whole lot more. What do you say to coming back with me, sweetie? The old lady’s out of town and won’t be back until tomorrow. We can party all night long…”
“No!” she protests, trying to twist her wrist free, but he holds tight, hurting her. “Let go!”
“Don’t be such a tease,” he says, ignoring her struggle. “I just want to be nice to you since you did such a great job tonight. That’s all. Let’s get to know each other more.”
“I don’t want it. So let go. Now! Or I’ll fucking scream!”
“Don’t act tough now, you little bitch,” he snaps, yanking her arm toward him once more.
“You’re fucking drunk. Let me go!”
“Do you know who I am?”
“No! Get the fuck away from me!”
She finally twists her wrist free from his grip. As she spins on her high stilettos to run, a sharp tug on her ponytail sends her crashing backward.
She screams, praying her voice carries over the pounding music inside the club.
“Paul.”
A calm voice cuts through the chaos, distracting him just long enough for his grip on her ponytail to loosen. The sound of approaching footsteps sends a jolt through her nerves.
A hand appears in her field of vision. She looks up to find a towering, heavily tattooed man built like a bodybuilder, his buzzcut glinting under the dim light. She hesitates, instinctively wary, before accepting his offered hand. He helps her to her feet with surprising gentleness, and that’s when she realizes just how massive he is. She stumbles back a step, alarm blaring at the edges of her dazed mind, as she takes in the mountain of a man.
Her hair is a tangled mess, her outfit rumpled, and one of her heels snapped clean off. Clutching his arm for balance, she kicks off her ruined pumps and steadies herself barefoot on the cold pavement.
“Have Sergei take care of her, Mason,” the same calm voice instructs.
She whips her head toward the sound and sees another man nod toward the other end of the passageway. She’s in no state to argue, too shaken to question who these men are. Relieved that someone has intervened, she lets the giant lead her away, her shoes and bag dangling from one hand as they disappear down toward the quieter, adjoining street.
Max watches as his bodyguard, Mason, helps the limping girl away. Then he turns his attention back to the drunk governor standing before him.
Cockily, the man grins up at Max, confidence unshaken despite being caught harassing an innocent girl next to a pile of leaking garbage bags. “You saw nothing, boy. I was just teasing her after she spilled that damn drink on me.”
“Actually, I came looking for you because I didn’t get a chance to talk to you tonight,” Max says coolly, dark eyes drilling into the stout man.
“Aw, well, sorry… I know you’re Michael’s boy and all, but it’s supposed to be a party, and I don’t like talking work outside of work,” Paul says with a shrug. “I don’t shit where I eat, and I don’t eat where I shit. Plus, I like dealing with your daddy and big brother better. It’s just how it’s always been. You understand, right?”
Max glances behind him, eyes locking on the rear door of Club Velvet. It remains shut, but the bass-heavy thrum of music inside still pulses faintly through the air. He knows he has to clean up the mess before someone else walks out.
His gaze returns to Paul, eyes narrowing slightly. Despite himself, Paul feels the urge to shrink beneath it.
“Be smarter, you drunk old fuck,” Max mutters, cold and razor-sharp.
“What?” Paul balks, voice faltering as he stares at Max, confused by the sudden shift in tone.
“I think you heard me just fine. You beady-eyed little cuck.”
Caught off guard, Paul lets out a laugh that sounds forced and nervous, eyes flicking behind Max’s shoulders. Just when it seems the situation can’t get any worse, Max’s bodyguard returns. He looms over the scene, tall and commanding, and Paul feels the knots in his gut tighten, a cold wave of dread crawling up his spine. Beneath the rolled-up sleeves of Mason’s crisp white shirt, thick, rope-like muscles flex, veins tracing intricate patterns beneath his olive skin.
Max isn’t anything to scoff at either. He stands tall, lean and athletic, his broad shoulders and defined muscles visible even beneath his tailored suit. It had been easy, almost enjoyable, manipulating his mild-mannered brother, Matthew, to squeeze out better deals. But Max looks like a different kind of challenge. The look in his dark eyes, paired with his wild reputation and the recent rumors of his ruthlessness, makes Paul uneasy.
Still, he’s the damn governor, and that dying company needs his cooperation if they want any hope of fixing the airport and highways.
“So what? You planning on starting something, you junkie?” Paul snaps, his voice edged with nerves. “Maybe I should call up Daddy and have him send you back to the grippy-sock factory. All these contracts are a fucking scam anyway. The infrastructure’s fine. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled when I tell him his shit company won’t be needed once the current contracts run out.”
Instead of recoiling at the threat as he expects, Paul watches in horror as Max’s face lights up with dark amusement. His lips curl into a smile that makes Paul’s heart rate spike, the pounding echoing loudly in his ears.
“It seems, Governor, that you’ve forgotten which way the money flows,” Max says coolly. “You are nothing but a silly, corrupt little whore with a fancy title slapped onto you.”
Max takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower as he continues.
“You should always stay eager to bend over when your corporate daddies want another go at you. Isn’t that how it’s always been? We aren’t funding your lavish lifestyle out of charity.”
Max’s gaze hardens.
“My dad has allowed you to walk around on a loose leash for far too long now. I think he might’ve gone a little soft with age… or maybe it’s brain rot from all the poison they’re pumping into him…” A dark glint flashes in Max’s eyes as a bitter memory of his father’s half-hearted apology surfaces.
“But unfortunately for you, I’m not him. Mason, remind dear old, senile Paul what happens to old dogs who forget their place.”
Max’s bodyguard steps forward without hesitation. In a swift motion, his fist crashes into the side of Paul’s head with a loud, sharp crack. Mason pulls back just as quickly, surprisingly agile for a man his size.
“Old Yeller, bitch,” Mason spits, eyes locked on Paul with icy disdain.
“Thanks, Mason!”
“I got you, Boss.”
Max watches patiently as Paul stumbles, clutching his head.
“You know, I was raised to respect my elders,” Max says, his voice disturbingly light, a singsong edge threading through it that sends chills down the governor’s spine. “But I also like it when the little doggies I pay good money for are loyal and grateful. Surely an old dog like you isn’t stupid enough to bite the hand that feeds you, right?”
Max takes another step forward, and Paul immediately shrinks back.
“We wouldn’t want little Eric’s Spring Break mishap in Miami to hit the headlines, would we?”
“W-what?” Paul stammers.
“I understand how hard it was for you to tidy up after him and his frat buddies, but it seems you missed a few key details.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The poor girl’s thinking about coming forward. She was scared into silence, but with the right connections, she might be able to—”
“No! Please! He has a bright future ahead of him! It was just a misunderstanding!”
“Of course. I don’t want little Eric sent away either. He doesn’t look like he’d fare well in prison.”
“I-I’ll do anything!”
“Sit, boy.”
“What?”
“Sit.”
Paul blinks, confused.
“Mason, I think our dog here needs a little more training.”
Mason delivers a swift kick to the back of Paul’s knees, and he collapses onto the rough cement.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Max asks calmly as he squats in front of him. “Now, bark if you understand me, boy.”
“You can’t be serious,” Paul sputters in protest.
“Can you go woof-woof? Just for me. But, like, make it convincing.”
Paul, flushed with shame, lets out a defeated whimper before barking. The sharp, humiliating sounds of the stout man on all fours echo through the passage, entertaining his spectators.
“Whoa, good boy!” Max coos, lightly smacking Paul’s bloated face with mock affection. “Isn’t he a good boy, Mason?”
“Yes, sir. The Governor’s a good little bitch.”
“Well, Paul, this has been fun, but I need to fix the little mess you just made. Be thankful it was me who caught you. And for little Eric’s sake, make sure there are no more delays on our projects from now on, all right?”
“No more delays,” the governor promises hoarsely.
“Great! And please do tell the missus I say hello when she returns tomorrow, will you? Or I can tell her myself the next time I see her.”
Paul pales at the thought of this lunatic showing up unannounced at his estate, casually chatting with his wife about what he’s been up to.
“Mason, can you hand me his wallet?”
“Yes, sir. I definitely can.”
Mason kicks Paul backward with casual ease, then crouches to rummage through his pockets, scooping up the scattered bills along the way.
“Here you go, Boss.”
“Jesus. Fifty bucks, Paul?” Max snorts, flipping through the crumpled bills like they personally offended him. He pulls out the remaining cash, then lets the empty wallet drop to the ground with theatrical disappointment.
“This should cover the emotional damage. Bye now, Paul.”
Max steps out of the narrow corridor and spots the clumsy waitress still standing beside the sleek black Mercedes-Maybach. Sergei, Max’s long-time driver, stands by the open door. A flicker of frustration breaks through his usual professional calm as he gives a sharp nod for her to get in.
“Get in,” Max says evenly as he approaches.
“Absolutely not,” she replies firmly, shaking her head, long hair swaying with the motion.
“Get in,” he repeats, voice softening. “I just want to talk.”
“Then talk,” she says, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. She tries to sound bold, but Max easily senses the hesitation beneath her defensive posture.
“Let me take you home,” he says calmly, tone smooth but edged with quiet insistence that leaves little room for argument. “It’s dangerous for a woman to be walking alone at this hour.”
She eyes him warily, unconvinced. Her gaze drifts down the street, hoping to see someone she could call out to. But aside from a few suspicious stragglers, the road is empty and eerily still. By the time she clocked out, her phone battery was already low. Now, it’s completely dead.
Realizing there’s no point in running, she slowly turns back toward the man in front of her. He stands beside the open car door, his posture imposing and unyielding.
His eyes are darker than the starless sky above. He stands tall, his broad-shouldered, athletic frame radiating quiet authority. The clean-shaven sharpness of his handsome face is undercut only by the cold, unreadable expression he wears.
He did save me. Right?
After one last glance around, she exhales and climbs into the back of the car, sinking into the buttery leather seat. He circles to the other side and slips in beside her.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.
His closeness makes her feel cornered and uneasy, especially when the driver shuts the door behind them. She finds a small sense of relief in the rear center console separating them.
“I’m fine,” she mutters, though her tone lacks conviction.
She watches silently as the driver takes his seat, followed by another man who settles into the front passenger side just before the car eases into motion.
“Just up ahead, please. Like, three blocks down is fine,” she tells the driver.
He doesn’t respond. She catches his solemn reflection in the rearview mirror as he glances at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road.
“What’s your name?” the man beside her asks, his voice smooth and low.
She stiffens. His large, dark, downturned eyes, framed by thick lashes, remain fixed on her, sending goosebumps skimming up her arms and along her spine. He’s handsome in that classic way she’s always found compelling in the novels she reads: a sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and perfectly styled hair.
But despite his good looks, something about him unsettles her. His expression is unreadable, his eyes calculating, as if he’s already ten steps ahead, silently studying her every move.
“Um,” she begins, fingers tapping nervously on her knees as she fights the urge to shrink away. “Lila,” she says, her voice rising uncertainly at the end, as if she’s not sure she should even tell him her name.
He studies the woman beside him, noticing that she still clutches her broken, cheap heels. Her bare feet are dirty, but her toenails are painted a soft, charming shade of light blue. His gaze trails up the length of her legs—her calves, her thighs, the subtle space between them. A sudden image of those legs tightening around his waist hits him hard, heat rising in a sharp, familiar rush.
“Lila. I’m Max. Sorry about my drunk acquaintances’ behavior tonight,” he says, his voice deeper and huskier than usual as he takes her in.
“It’s all right,” she replies, unease etched across her face. He watches as she edges back, pressing herself firmly into the corner like a weary animal tired of running. “That’s the bus stop up ahead. You can drop me there.”
“Why?”
“I just… I want to be alone right now.”
“It’s late. I can drop you off at your place, or you can wait here for a cab.”
“I think… I need to report him.”
“You’re okay now, sweetheart,” Max insists firmly, but Lila only shakes her head.
“No, I—”
“Nothing really happened.”
“What?” she gasps, shocked. “You saw—”
“I saw nothing. He’s a respected governor. You’re—”
“I’m a nobody, isn’t that it?” she scoffs, brows furrowing as her hazel eyes burn with anger while she glares at him. “You’re disgusting.”
Her words strike a nerve, evident in the way his jaw tightens, muscles rippling beneath the surface as his teeth grind together with quiet intensity.
“Let me finish,” he says icily, tone making her stomach twist. “You’re just one person without the means to fight back. It’ll become a he-said, she-said situation. But one thing’s for certain: the media will hound you for the rest of your life. You’ll be miserable.”
“I…”
“You must forget about this, Lila.”
“This is so fucked up,” she says, fists tightening in her lap.
“I know,” he answers quietly. “But life isn’t fair, is it? Let me compensate you for your time. How much do you want?”
“What?”
“How much money do you want? Name your price.”
“Are you… trying to pay for my silence?” She’s so stunned by his audacity that a bitter laugh escapes her.
“Do you prefer cash?” He pulls a thick stack of money from inside his suit jacket. “Here. Take this.”
Lila stares at the money. The stack is far larger than the crumpled bills Paul shoved at her earlier. Anger boils inside her. She snatches the stack and throws it back at him, bills scattering across the confined space of the car.
“Fuck. You. I want out of this car. NOW!”