Chapter 3
Chapter three
Dane
A late-night downpour pounds the sidewalk as my driver, Kent, eases to a stop outside an unmarked building tucked into a narrow street in Tribeca. No signage, no line, nothing to suggest the debauchery inside. Only a small brass serpent curled around a ring.
“Wait here, I won’t be long,” I say as Kent opens the door, angling my head down to avoid the rain. My eyes flick to the iris scanner above the heavy black oak door, and with a quiet click, it flies open, absorbing me into the darkness.
There are just a few hours left until my flight to London.
I’ve been on the go since five this morning, and my body feels every hour.
Back-to-back meetings. Zurich calls. The Bexley takeover.
I should be resting. Instead, I’m here. Because sometimes the information you need isn’t found in the light of day in polished boardrooms. It’s here that kingdoms rise and fall between the clink of crystal and men texting they're working 'late'.
The Serpent Club is like stepping into another world—a modern-day den of sin, with velvet booths, crystal decanters, and hidden corridors that lead to playrooms. The air thrums with low laughter and decadence, perfume and smoke threading through the room like a second skin.
Power clings to the walls, old and stale, like a family heirloom nobody dares throw away.
This is my father’s world—politicians, financiers, the kind of men who’ve never been told no.
Membership is passed down like family jewels.
A generational playground where old money heirs and Ivy League frat boys come to remind each other they still own the city.
They come here to trade power, and to drown in whiskey and women.
Tonight, my currency is information.
Bexley’s heir, Hugo Bexley, is here. The timing couldn’t be more perfect—almost like fate dropped him out of the sky straight onto the chopping board.
The rumors swirling around him are not pretty.
A trust-fund cokehead with a penchant for hookers, not one iota of concern for the employees who have been trying to drag him into the digital age.
That his father’s empire is teetering on the edge while he’s here in New York, high and sloppy, says everything you need to know.
I spot Julian already in our velvet booth, a woman draped on either side, tonight’s target cornered—greasing the pig before I go in for the slaughter. Julian pours me a whiskey, flashing me a conspiratorial wink as I slide into the booth.
“Perfect timing,” Julian drawls, his arm curled around a brunette with lips painted the color of sin. She runs her nails down his chest like she can’t decide if she wants to scratch or worship. “Our friend here was telling me how fucking expensive London has gotten.”
Hugo’s gone—slurring, pupils blown, hands all over the half-naked blonde grinding on his lap.
But that’s fine. I’m not here for Hugo. I’m here for what he slips when he’s this far gone.
He won’t remember this conversation tomorrow.
He won’t even remember his own name if the coke’s as pure as it looks, the purest kind that only the Serpent provides.
It doesn’t matter what your vice is—the Serpent only trades in the best.
Julian leans in, lowering his voice. “He’s spilling more than he should. A couple of shareholders are ready to jump ship. They don’t believe in him. Not anymore.”
That gets my attention. Shareholders turning means weakness. Weakness means leverage. If they’re already restless, London won’t be a negotiation—it’ll be a kill shot.
Julian never rushes. He watches Hugo and times his moment. He leans back, flicking his wrist and pulls a napkin out of his top pocket, sliding it to me under his palm.
“Shareholder heat map,” he murmurs, the sly grin never leaving his face.
“Names you want. Two proxies wobble tonight. One trustee is pissed; he’s been shopping his block quietly.
Another big holder has been fielding offers—he’s only holding because someone whispered a price. Whisper louder, and he sells.”
I open the napkin, eyes running down the hastily scrawled list before I look up. It’s the kind of paper that kills companies: a boiled-down board map with names, holdings, brief notes—who’s loyal, who’s wavering, who’s got a personal problem that makes them vulnerable.
Julian’s mouth quirks, eyes gleaming. “By the time you touch down in London, the funeral will be a mere formality. He practically gift-wrapped it.”
“Good work,” I murmur, pocketing the evidence. My attention drifts back to Hugo, whose head is now buried between the blonde’s tits, snorting his next line straight off her cleavage. He’s too busy destroying himself to notice I’m already sharpening the knife.
My fingers curl around my glass, the smoky burn of the whiskey grounding me. One crack in the armor is all it takes.
“There's another issue,” Julian says, swirling his whiskey before he takes a long pull. “Parliament’s sniffing. Bexley’s been lobbying hard in London. If they stir up noise about foreign ownership, it could stall you.”
I sit back, loosening my cuff. “Parliament won’t stop me.”
“You could ask Father, with his political connections to sp...”
“No,” I cut in, sharper than I intend. “I don’t want his help. I want nothing from him.”
Julian nods, like he expected that. “Then you’ll need another angle.” He sighs, cracking his knuckles like he always does when he’s frustrated. “Media, perhaps. Public perception. We control the story before they do.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll fix it. Parliament is a variable we can tip.”
“There’s something else I want to talk to you about,” Julian adds, a tinge of hesitation in his tone. “I’ve met someone. A contact who says they can unearth files about the accident. Things the police buried.”
My hand tightens on the edge of the table. The accident. My mother. Our mother. My fiancée. Gone in one night, buried under whispers and sealed reports.
“Names?” I ask.
“Not yet. But they’re credible. I’ll set up a meeting when you’re back from London.” Julian studies me, bracing for pushback, but I remain silent.
“Does the old man know you’ve been digging?” I ask after a long pause, even though I’d bet my whole life savings he doesn’t.
Our father—I use the term loosely—saw our mother’s death as a convenient PR opportunity. There’s nothing he wouldn’t exploit to climb the slippery pole of politics. When tragedy struck, he played the role of doting widower to perfection, tipping the election to the Senate in his favor.
Edward Black. A man who never wasted a crisis.
My mother and fiancée were killed when a car overtaking in the wrong lane forced theirs off a steep embankment. The vehicle rolled, exploded, and the other driver fled into the night. No trace. No answers. Only fire and ash.
But I can’t deny Julian is right; the disappearance of any information relating to the perpetrator stinks of a cover-up.
The difference is I wanted to bury the entire ordeal along with the bodies, but Julian can’t seem to move on.
He wants answers. I don’t. I want to forget.
I’m sure a therapist would charge me a thousand bucks to say that’s unhealthy.
But they didn’t have to see my future go up in smoke or the aftermath of the charred bodies that still haunts me at night.
“But you understand what will happen if we dig up ghosts? We’ll have to watch the entire ordeal play out again in the media.”
“So you’re happy letting the bastard who forced them off the road walk free?”
“Fine,” I force out, downing my whiskey in one. “Do what you need to do.”
The blonde on Hugo’s lap laughs too loudly, pulling me back. She tosses her hair back as she leads Hugo away to one of the private playrooms.
An auburn-haired woman appears at my elbow, topping up my whiskey, her mouth brushing my ear as she murmurs an invitation to a private room.
Her nails trail up my thigh, practiced, confident.
Tonight, none of it lands. If anything, it irritates—too obvious, too rehearsed.
Another offer of empty sex that promises distraction and delivers nothing.
They circle me constantly, skilled in seduction, eager to claim their prize. It should entice. But surprisingly, the face that cuts through the haze isn’t theirs. It’s hers. A flash from earlier—her smile in the elevator, the way it stirred something in my chest I thought was long dead.
It’s inconvenient. It’s stupid. It’s damn well there.
I drain the rest of my whiskey and stand, already done with the night, brushing past the woman at my side without a word.
“Leaving already?” Julian arches a brow, eyes sparkling. “You’re not staying to enjoy the scenery.”
“Some of us have work to do.”
He chuckles, leaning back, his attention already wandering to the brunette draped on his side. I don’t bother with goodbyes before I push through to the exit.
The wind has picked up as I step outside; the rain pelting me from all angles.
Kent is waiting at the curb, the engine purring, the headlights illuminating the rain like fireflies.
I slide into the back seat, clutching the paper in my pocket.
“Where to, sir?” Kent says, eyeing me in the rearview mirror.
“I’ll go home to change, shower and pack, then take me to the airfield.”
“As you wish.”
As we filter into the traffic, I glance at Julian’s scribbles, the weight of a plan assembling itself in my head.
London is tomorrow. Bexley’s heir is a monument to disaster; its trustees are nervous; the board is brittle.
What I need to do now is simply a formality.
The kill will be swift, but not entirely painless.
But try as I might to dispel them, my thoughts drift back to Sloane.
Wide eyes, that cheeky tongue, the stubborn little smirk I haven’t shaken since this morning.
On the trading floor earlier, her comment to Julian, the sweetness riding just close enough to insolence, and later, that tiny slip of irritation when she thought I couldn’t hear.
It ignited something in me. I wanted nothing more than to follow her into the elevator, slam her against the wall and taste every drop of her submission.
I’ve no idea what’s got into her. More to the point, I’ve got no idea what’s got into me.
Before today, she was simply my hyper-efficient assistant.
On top of every task. Meticulous attention to detail.
The ability to manage my chaotic schedule with pinpoint precision.
The only assistant to make the grade. Goddamnit, the only time people dare to get bold with me is when they’re on the verge of quitting. Even then, most wouldn’t dare.
Before I allow rational thought to intervene, I reach for my phone, my pulse roaring as I navigate to her name.
Change of plan. I need you in London with me. Be at the airfield in two hours.
I tuck my phone away, the beginnings of a grin curving my mouth.
Perhaps London will offer more of a thrill than expected.
Because if she wants to play, she’ll find out pretty damn quick; I never lose.