3. Dean
DEAN
The bass is a constant thump through the floor. I’m at Aura tonight, in my old office. I used to work out of this room when the noise helped me think. When I needed a constant reminder that things were moving. Now it’s just a distraction. I think better without it, in the quiet.
But I’m here because the city just killed my new club. Apex. A year of planning and a fortune in architectural fees, all for a rooftop terrace with the best skyline view in the city. Denied. The zoning board cited “potential noise impact.”
I don’t understand the logic. People move into the center of the city for the energy, then spend their nights filing complaints until it’s gone. They erase the very thing they came for, then act surprised when the neighborhood goes quiet.
Except this time, it isn’t the residents.
Club Nectar sits directly across the street, and they don’t want the competition. They know exactly what would happen if Apex opened. My clubs are the best in the city, and the people who come know it.
I don’t cut corners. If something looks worn, it gets fixed. I train my staff properly. I pay them well and treat them with respect. In return, they care about the work. They pay attention. It’s obvious the moment you walk inside.
That’s why we don’t rely on foot traffic or tourists. We have regulars. Loyal ones. People with choices who still come back.
There’s no mystery to it. It’s just good business. But not everyone can manage that, so instead of improving, they look for ways to undercut the ones who do.
I’ve tried every legal route—the appeals, the meetings, the carefully worded compromises. All I have to show for it is a thicker stack of rejections.
Now I’ve got two options: walk away, or call Ray Malone.
Unfortunately I’ve never been the type to walk away.
Doing business with Ray is a calculated risk. But I’m not about to let a place called Club Nectar outmaneuver me.
The office door opens without a knock. Irritating. One of the bartenders steps in. Claire, I think. I notice the dress before anything else.
She’s been told more than once to add an inch to her uniform, and she’s decided it’s a suggestion, not a rule. She wears it with the confidence of someone who rarely gets corrected.
Claire has that generic Alton Hills kind of attractive. Sun-bleached hair. A tan that looks like it belongs in a resort brochure. A lean build that makes almost anything look good without trying.
“Jake said things didn’t go your way today,” she says, setting a glass of whiskey on my coaster. She takes her time with it.
I knock it back and hand her the glass.
“For once, Jake’s right.”
She moves around the desk and stops in front of me, close enough to be deliberate.
“Do you want some company?” she asks softly. The implication is clear. This isn’t the first time she’s tried this, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
I’m her boss, technically. Jake runs the floor, but my name is on the place. That matters to me. There are some things I don’t mix.
And beyond that, I’m not interested anyway. I moved past this kind of thing years ago.
I don’t hesitate. “No.”
She straightens, smoothing her dress with a quick, irritated motion.
“Your loss,” she says, aiming for playful.
It doesn’t land.
After she leaves, I stare at the closed door. Years ago, I might’ve felt a flicker of interest. Now? Nothing. I’m thirty-six. That’s when it starts, isn’t it? When the interest just...dies. I can’t even remember the last time I was actually into someone.
Max’s boss, Michelle, flicks into my mind. I met her earlier today. She was…not what I expected.
Blonde bob, cold blue eyes. She wore a little white skirt suit that clung to her hips like it had been custom-fitted.
I pissed her off by pointing out every obvious flaw in the half-assed build she was trying to pitch. The cheap finishes, lazy staging, corners cut so bad my contractors would’ve laughed. The place was a joke, but she didn’t flinch. Not until I guessed her heel height wrong. That got her.
She looked me dead in the eye and suggested I’m packing a cocktail wiener.
People don’t talk to me like that. They usually operate on the same predictable frequency.
Flattery or fear. But she was on a different channel entirely.
I like that, but I figure Max has already covered that ground. Too bad.
I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. Ray’s a bad idea but right now, he’s all I’ve got.
The bass from the club drops into a heavy, pulsing thud that shakes the office walls.
Enough of this. I grab my keys and head home.
Even at this hour, I ease up to the gate with caution. Henry lives just a few minutes up the road now.
The gates are ten feet high, with thick hedges running along both sides, sealing off any view of the house from the road. Still, as I wait for the heavy iron to swing open, I glance up and down the road, watching for Henry’s obnoxious BMW.
I had to put the Jag in storage—it drew too much attention. Henry would’ve spotted it in a second. Now I drive an aging green Range Rover that groans on the inclines but keeps a low profile.
My family thinks I live in a downtown penthouse. I let them. The city’s too loud, too full of obligation. I prefer it up here. It’s quiet.
The irony is, Max is the one who found the listing. He mentioned an architect who had built it as a private retreat years ago. He still has no idea I bought it. No one does. That’s the point. The moment my family learns where I live, this place ceases to be a refuge.
I step inside, tossing my jacket over the back of a chair and dropping my keys into a ceramic bowl.
Sinking into the worn leather armchair by the fireplace, I let the quiet of the house take over.
The only sounds are the steady tick of the grandfather clock I rebuilt myself and the faint, low hum from the kitchen appliances.
The place isn’t huge, but it’s enough. High ceilings with exposed beams, warm wood floors underfoot.
My mind should be on Ray Malone. I sent the text, and the meeting is set. It’s a messy, probably reckless play, but it’s the last move I have left to get that permit approved.
My phone vibrates.
It’s Henry, probably up with the baby again. He’s sent another photo of James, my fourth nephew. Just a few months old, James is a sturdy little thing with a thick head of dark hair and tiny hands. I stare at the picture for a moment, taking in his peaceful, sleeping face, then type out a reply.
Dean: He’s a tank.
I’m about to drop my phone onto the side table when I hesitate, not entirely sure why. My fingers drift to the search bar, and I type in Michelle Pierce.
The results are all business. Awards, high-end listings, professional articles. Nothing personal. I scroll until her headshot appears. A standard realtor photo with a clean background and a practiced smile. I tap the image, letting it fill the screen.
Her hair frames a face of sharp, striking angles. She's beautiful, just not in a soft way. Her eyes are large, but the look in them stops you. Don’t test me. She seems like the kind of woman you can't get anything past.
Now that I think about it, Max has said as much—that she’s a dragon. Relentless, impossible to please, cold as hell.
Which makes me wonder…maybe he hasn’t been there. Even his brand of charisma has its limits, and something tells me she’d laugh in his face if he tried anything.
Something stirs. Interest, maybe. Or just trouble looking for a place to land.
Terrible idea. I lock the phone, force myself to look away.
Then I open it again.