Chapter 9 #2
Gregg clears his throat, bemused. “And this is Cameron,” he introduces me, nodding my way.
Julian turns his attention to me, offering his hand. “Nice to meet you, mate. Heard you’re an artist. As you can see I’m a bit of a collector.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too. And yeah, I paint sometimes,” I say, brushing a hand through my hair in a futile attempt at casualness.
Finally, Julian looks to Marc. “And that must make you—”
“Marc,” he answers quickly, stepping forward with confidence. “Colleague. Friend.” He hesitates, just for a second, something dark behind his eyes. “Sometimes more.”
Julian’s expression shifts, subtle but unmistakable. His polite warmth cools a degree as he shoots Gregg a quick glance then returns to Marc, his smile tightening. “Right. Gregg mentioned you.”
“Oh?” Marc tilts his head. “In what context?”
Gregg moves in easily. “Only that we’d all be heading out together. No dossiers passed around or anything.” He claps Marc on the shoulder, all charm and diplomacy.
Marc doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, I’m sure I’ll leave an impression.”
Julian’s smile sharpens just slightly. “You already have, mate.”
The air in the room shifts.
Julian’s words linger, sharp and smooth all at once, weighted with something he didn’t bother to say aloud.
Marc’s grin vanishes, just barely, but I catch it.
A tiny dimming in his eyes, like he suddenly realizes that whatever Julian meant, it wasn’t a compliment.
I look between them, feeling the edge in the room like a taut wire, then jerk my gaze to Riley.
She has frozen mid-sip, lips still parted around the rim of her glass.
No one moves. No one breathes. Even Gregg, composed and steady as ever, lets the silence stretch a heartbeat too long to be polite.
Music hums from somewhere behind us, soft and low, filling the space without actually easing the tension.
Through the windows, London glows, its lights blinking quietly like they were watching.
I glare at Riley, eyes wide, silently begging her to save me—hell, save us—from whatever this moment was turning into.
She must’ve remembered her promise from earlier, because her expression smooths and she slips easily back into being the most naturally disarming person in any room.
“Well, now that we’ve all made our impressions, should we toast to them?”
“Of course,” Gregg agrees, smiling like none of this fazed him.
“Julian?” Riley sings, resting a hand lightly on his bicep. “Do you think you could make two more of these for Marc and Cameron? They’re so delicious.”
Julian turns toward her, and for a beat their faces are only inches apart. She doesn’t pull away. “Certainly, darling.” He crosses to the bar, but not before glancing back at her over his shoulder.
I sink into the couch, trying to look relaxed even though a flutter of secondhand nerves buzzes in my chest. When Gregg catches my eye across the room, he winks softly, like there was a shared secret only he and I were in on.
It steadies me more than I want to admit.
Riley plops down beside me, crossing her legs, sipping her cocktail.
I lean in and murmur in Italian, keeping my voice low.
“Grazie for changing the subject. It was getting so tense.”
She gives me a playful, overly serious look. “Prego! I did it for you. Marc’s smile was getting a little too…” she searches for the right word and lands on the English word, “stupid.”
I snort. “And Julian? Did you see how he was looking at you? The glass wasn’t the only thing he wanted to fill.”
Riley slaps a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Don’t be so crass! But, yes, I noticed.”
“Careful,” I tease. “He might offer you a private tour of his art collection.”
“Only if he shows me the Nigerian sculptures too,” she says, laughing. “Those are the real masterpieces!”
I join her in laughter, grateful for the levity. The earlier tension unknotted a bit in my chest. “Seriously, thank you. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like when words start turning into knives.”
“I’ll handle it,” she assures me, giving my knee a gentle squeeze. “You just relax. And keep smiling like you do when Gregg looks at you.”
“I’ll keep trying,” I say, though my face was already warming.
“Well, whatever you’re doing,” Riley adds, “it’s working.”
Across the room, Marc steps in close to Gregg, his voice low and a little too measured for comfort.
“So, Julian…” Marc says. “Is he always this warm with strangers?”
“Julian’s very good at reading people,” Gregg replies, his smile perfectly polite. “And he doesn’t waste time on small talk.”
Marc exhales a light laugh that was airy and dismissive. “He seems to like Riley.”
“She seems easy to like,” Gregg said, his tone smooth as glass.
Marc let that hang in the air before adding, “You mentioned me to him.”
“Well, yes. I said you’d be here,” Gregg explains evenly, not a flicker of doubt in his voice.
“You sure that’s all?” Marc leans in just a touch, enough that even from a distance I feel the challenge disguised as curiosity.
I see something sharpen behind Gregg’s eyes, and his posture changes ever so slightly. “If there’s something you want to ask me, Marc, I suggest you do it.”
Marc seems to hesitate, studying him. Then he shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Just wondering if this night’s about fun… or some type of strategy.”
Before Gregg can answer, Julian appears with impeccable timing, sweeping back into the center of the moment. “Here we are,” he announces, placing a drink in my hand before offering one to Marc.
I lift my glass lightly. “To impressions.”
“To mystery,” Julian adds, looking at Riley with a sly look.
“Cheers!” Riley chimes.
Our glasses clink together like a soft symphony, and I watch Gregg hold Marc’s gaze one last time before he smiles politely, and turns away. The tension doesn’t vanish, it just slides back into the corners, waiting for its moment.
I lift my glass toward Gregg. For a second, everything else blurs out. Marc stands nearby, Julian flirts with Riley. And I just look at Gregg. Really look.
And for a heartbeat, I forget Marc is only a few feet away, watching everything.
The black cab curves through the glass and steel arteries of Canary Wharf, its headlights slicing through the warm summer evening.
London buzzes with its usual restless energy, but the block where Velvet Noir stands feels strangely still, like the building existed on its own dimension, breathing rarified air that didn’t quite belong to the rest of the city.
The cab rolls to a stop, and Marc is already out the door before I fully register it. Julian follows, offering Riley a hand with an easy confidence. Gregg steps out next and turns back toward me, his hand extended.
I take it before I can think, warmth sparking where our skin meets. I enjoy the feeling maybe a second too long before I catch myself and let go, smoothing down my shirt trying to hide my feelings.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to sound casual.
“My pleasure.” He winks. Of course he does.
At first glance, Velvet Noir is almost invisible.
Its exterior is a minimalist sweep of black, blending so seamlessly into the modern architecture that you could walk past it a dozen times and never notice.
No neon. No sign. Just a single chrome door marked only by an elegant emblem of feathers, thorns, and mirrored wings, that revealed itself only when the light hit it just right.
A velvet rope guides the line, and a massive bouncer in a tailored black jacket watches the crowd with practiced, unreadable calculation.
A handful of hopefuls hover just beyond the barrier, radiating frustration, excitement, or both.
But when Julian approaches, everything shifts.
Recognition flickers across the bouncer’s expression, and the rope comes down with a smooth, deferential nod.
“Mr. Eze, Mr. Harwell, welcome back,” the bouncer greets them.
“Thanks, mate,” Julian replies, offering his arm to Riley as they slip inside.
Marc follows with a nod, and Gregg turns to me and extends his arm. “After you.”
For a heartbeat, I consider walking ahead so he’d follow behind me, but instead, and without fully knowing why, I fold my arm into his. His eyes drop to where our arms linked.
“Well, okay then.” He smiles and guides me forward as if this were the most natural thing in the world. We move past the waiting crowd and through the door.
The moment it shuts behind us, the air changes.
Lighting washes over me, a sensual, pulsing glow of purples and crimsons.
Shadows seem to move with the rhythm of the music, which throbs low and steady, vibrating through the polished black floors and up into my ribs.
Deep house, seductive and deliberate. Music built for movement, for touch, for leaning in close and saying something you might regret in the morning.
It wasn't a club for chaos. It was a club for intimacy.
Black glass, lacquered finishes, and gilded edges gleam everywhere I look.
A long bar stretches across one wall, glowing from beneath like moonlight trapped in obsidian.
Bartenders in fitted black T-shirts move behind it with dancer-like precision, crafting and pouring drinks made of top shelf ingredients.
Velvet drapes the walls, and plush burgundy sofas curl around the edges beneath a shadowed mezzanine. The air is thick but refined with notes of expensive cologne, champagne, and something warm and spicy I can’t quite place. Saffron, maybe.
“Now this.” Riley lets out a whistle beside me. “This is where you bring a date you don’t want the world to know about.”
“Or one you do,” Julian corrects, leaning in close. “And want them to feel like the only person in the world.”
She raises her brow at him. “So now this is a date?”