Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Dane
I’ve tried to talk myself out of this all week.
I’ve always been a man of logic and reasoning.
Head over heart every time. But one thing I’ve learned over the years is that logic can’t control the bigger things in life.
Logic can’t prevent an early grave on a dark, rain-swept freeway.
And logic certainly can’t explain who that was in London or why my heart thumps every time I think of her, and is silent for the other version of Sloane who returned to the office.
When I punch Chantés into the GPS, I know I’ve already lost the argument. For once, the heart won out.
The traffic’s the usual Saturday-night crawl from the Upper East Side to Tribeca, city lights bleeding across the windshield. I time my arrival for when the place will be busiest—when it’s easiest to blend into the noise, to hang back in the shadows.
Chantés is wedged between a shuttered tailor’s and a tattoo studio, glowing with red neon.
From the outside, it doesn’t look like much—black awning, frosted glass, a single brass plaque with its name etched in cursive.
But the moment I step inside, the bass hits like a heartbeat.
The air is thick with heat, perfume, and laughter.
Low lights sweep over faces, catching the glint of jewelry and glass.
It’s not my kind of place, but compared to The Serpent, this is child’s play. No private playrooms. No masks. No whispered invites. No lines you can’t uncross. Just regular people looking for something to make them forget.
I cut through the crowd, eyes adjusting to the pulse of violet and amber light.
The ground floor is chaos—a dance floor packed with bodies, bartenders juggling bottles, and a DJ perched above it all, hyping the crowd.
I spot a staircase tucked at the back and climb, needing a little distance.
The upstairs bar is smaller, shadowed with glass panels overlooking the floor below.
Exactly what I need, somewhere I can see without being seen.
I order a Macallan neat and take a seat by the railing.
The whiskey burns clean as it slides down, the kind of burn that calms more than it stings.
From here, the dance floor is a stream of motion—silhouettes slipping in and out of focus, faces flashing briefly under the pulse of purple strobe light before dissolving back into shadow.
It doesn’t take long before I notice the looks.
Women glancing over their shoulders, a few smiles that linger too long. One brunette at the bar is particularly bold, openly staring as she orders another drink she doesn’t touch. When she finally makes her way over, there’s a practiced seduction in her movements.
“You don’t seem like the type who comes here often,” she says, resting her arm on the back of the empty chair next to me. Her voice is smooth, teasing.
“I’m not,” I admit, swirling the amber in my glass.
“So, what’s the occasion?” she leans in.
“Waiting for someone.”
“That someone’s late,” she says, leaning closer. “Perhaps you should ditch them and look elsewhere?”
There’s a time I might’ve indulged that kind of offer. But tonight, every cell in my body is tuned to one purpose.
I take a sip of my drink, eyes never leaving the crowd below. “Oh, she’s here,” I murmur. “She just doesn’t know I’m waiting.”
Her laugh is low, almost a purr. “That sounds like trouble.” She presses her thigh against mine, her fingers brushing over my knee. “Lucky girl.”
I turn my glass in my hand, eyes still scanning the crowd. “I’m not sure lucky is the word.”
She studies me a moment longer, intrigued rather than put off, then reaches for a napkin and scribbles a number, sliding it across. “Well, if she keeps you waiting too long...” Her eyes flick over my body. “You might want a distraction.”
I glance at the napkin but don’t touch it. “Won’t be necessary,” I say, eyes still fixed on the dance floor below.
She lingers, lips curving into a knowing smile before she finally fades into the crowd, though I can still sense her gaze tracking me from across the room.
I finish my drink slowly, elbows resting on the cool metal rail as I look down at the crowd.
Somewhere in that mess of bodies and lights is the answer I’ve been chasing all week.
And when I find her—I’ll finally know which version of Sloane I’ve been losing my mind over.
On the surface, I’m calm. Inside every muscle is coiled tight, ready to pounce. I’m not sure whether I’m imagining it when another burst of strobe arrows through the dark. The light flares, white-hot for a split second—and that’s when I see her.
It’s the smile I catch first. Unmistakable. The one that tore through every wall I’d built. My heart slams once, hard enough to feel in my throat.
Then the flash fades, plunging the room back into shadow. For a heartbeat, I think I’ve lost her.
I shoot up, gripping the rail until the strobe hits again—
and there she is.
The woman I can’t stop seeing every time I close my eyes.
Dancing. Laughing. Real.
The air leaves my lungs. Every instinct I have screams to move, but all I can do is stand here, transfixed.
She’s even more beautiful than I remember, her dark hair falling loose down her back, a red silk strapless top hugging her curves. A dark, pleated mini skirt skims her thighs, teasing with every movement. If I close my eyes, I can still feel her—soft, breathless, pliant in my lap. All mine.
And right beside her is Sloane. The Sloane I know. The one who never puts a foot wrong. Until now.
Two identical faces moving in rhythm, side by side, and yet I could tell them apart blindfolded. One burns bright, electric, every movement unguarded. The other is all control and calculation, every step measured to perfection.
Every gut instinct that told me something didn’t add up—I was right.
A slow, sharp anger unfurls in my chest, piercing through the haze of disbelief. She lied. They both did. And I don’t know which part burns more—the deception, or how just looking at her now still does this to me.
I drag my gaze back to her, unable to stop watching. The sway of her hips, the way she tosses her hair when she laughs, how she closes her eyes for a second, lost in the music. That spark she only showed me glimpses of in London is in full force now, alive and unfiltered.
My pulse pounds with a dangerous mix of fury and something I refuse to name. I turn towards the stairs. I don’t know what the hell they thought they were doing, but I know I don’t take kindly to being treated like an idiot.
I stalk down the stairs slowly and hang at the perimeter of the dance floor, waiting for an opportunity to get her alone. It’s close to midnight now, and the place is heaving.
I lean against the wall, arms folded, eyes fixed on her, making sure she doesn’t move out of my sight. I don’t blink. Don’t breathe. Just watch.
Eventually, it happens—the shift. A flicker in her rhythm, her laugh catching mid-sound as if her body knows before her mind does. For a split second, she freezes. The strobe flashes again, and this time she sees me. Her eyes widen, disbelief colliding with recognition. Then guilt.
I don’t move. I just hold her gaze.
Then I tilt my head, a silent command.
She hesitates, says something to her friend, then starts toward me. The crowd swallows her whole, flashes of purple and blue cutting through the darkness until she’s in front of me—near enough that I can smell her perfume.
I don’t say a word.
I simply reach for her hand and lead her away.
Despite the anger bubbling, I hate the way the feel of her fingers curled against mine eases something tight and unfamiliar in my chest.
For the first time in my life, I don’t know if I can let her go.