[Content Warning: This scene contains depictions of violence, drug use, coercion, and other sensitive subject matter. Reader discretion is strongly advised.]
Caius stood abruptly from his desk, his jaw locked tight.
Heather had just hung up on him. No explanation. No warning. Just silence.
Why would she do that?
His instincts fired off alarms in his head. Heather never hung up on him without a word. Even when she was angry or frustrated, she made sure he was aware before she ended a call.
And this... this wasn’t normal.
He knew sothing was wrong. He started pacing the room. That call hadn’t sounded right; her voice had been faint and distorted. She sounded disoriented and scared?
And that text—i niid ur hapel rigrhtnkw—it wasn’t just a typo. Those were the words of soone who could barely hold their phone, let alone type. And soone struggling to stay conscious.
He stopped pacing and sat back down at his desk. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he traced the last location from her call.
19th Wexler, Midtown, The Glass Ember.
His frown deepened.
The address was familiar. He’d heard of it before. Heather had ntioned it so years ago, when she was still signed under VestorCorp and wanted to attend—sothing about a gala event.
But as he searched the venue’s details, unease crept up his spine.
The photos showed polished floors, velvet ropes, and staged red carpet shots. But everything about it felt too perfect. And a lie carefully wrapped in glamour.
Caius grabbed his phone and sent a ssage to Adams, his right-hand man and butler.
[Run a background check on 19th Wexler, Midtown. The Glass Ember]
If anyone could get the truth about this place, it was Adams.
Minutes later, the response ca through. Adams had sent him exactly what he needed—the real story buried deep in comnt sections and anonymous forums.
The Glass Ember wasn’t just a gala venue.
It was an underground lounge for the city’s most reckless n—the ones with too much money and too little self-control. He didn’t really care about that information.
What interested him was what ca next, Adams said it was a hidden playground for celebrities looking to bury their scandals. They feel a lot safer there because the owner shields them.
Caius’s expression darkened.
What the hell was Heather doing there?
He considered calling her manager or her friend... What was her na again? Penelopea?
But no, his hand tightened around his phone as he dialed a few contacts. People who owed him favors.
He grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair and slid it on.
He was going to get Heather.
And if anyone had laid so much as a finger on what was his—Caius held the thought back, but the rage sat heavy in his chest, simring. They better pray she was still in one piece.
...
"I’m not having as much fun as I thought I would," one of the girls muttered, swirling her drink without looking up.
"If Lauren hadn’t dragged her dumb sister here, we wouldn’t be in this ss," another girl snapped.
"Don’t bla ," Lauren said flatly, waving a hand like the whole thing was beneath her. "I thought she was used to how things work in this industry by now."
"You weren’t even sure she’d comply," the first girl shot back.
"I thought she was ready!" Lauren barked, defensiveness creeping into her voice.
Trish groaned, pressing her fingers against her temple. All this drinking was making her nauseous.
"Let’s just go, Miguel," she urged.
Miguel scowled, sweeping his eyes across the ss of the table. "Ugh, fine. This is not how I planned to enjoy myself," he muttered.
BANG!
That startled everyone in the room. They weren’t expecting anyone, so who was knocking on the door of a private lounge?
Miguel tiptoed closer to the door, trying to peep through the hole on the door, when he was t with another pair of eyes peeping through.
He quickly dodged, but it was too late, the person had already seen him.
"Open up, Miguel!"
But he turned to the girls. "How do they know my na?" Miguel whispered.
BANG!
"Miguel, I will not repeat myself."
He pulled it open. "Would you stop banging like—"
But the man on the other side shoved his way inside before Miguel could finish his sentence.
"Viktor?" Trish blinked, startled. "What are you doing here?"
"The place has been swatted. Your brother’s handling it downstairs," Viktor said briskly. "He sent to get all of you out. Now."
Trish’s face fell. "What do you an—swatted?"
"Police. Or worse. Either way, not your friends." His Russian accent "We need to go."
Miguel looked back at the table. Packets. Powder. Pills.
Plain evidence.
"We can’t leave," Miguel snapped. "Our prints are everywhere. We clean this first."
Trish yanked her wrist free from Viktor’s grip. "He’s right. We can’t leave this behind."
She grabbed the nearest packet and started dividing it. "If we split it up, we can get it done fast."
The group moved quickly, swallowing substances, trying to erase the evidence as fast as possible.
Lauren dropped to her knees, coughing from the bitter taste, but forced herself to keep going. Her mind wasn’t on the drugs—it was on damage control.
She couldn’t afford to be caught up in a scandal. Not with her board mbers on her throat about poor leadership. And not with her contracts hanging by threads.
Her eyes drifted to Heather, still cuffed to the table leg. Heather’s head lolled slightly as she ca to reality.
She was sluggish and weak; but she could still hear muffled sounds. Her hands felt restrained.
So she tugged at the cuffs. But they didn’t budge. Pain shot up her wrist, making her gasp softly. Her eyes closed for a brief minute and she got lost in unconsciousness again.
Trish shoved a pile of powder toward the youngest dancer—the boy who had been dancing on Heather earlier.
"Make him take it too," Miguel ordered coldly.
"No—please," the boy stamred, backing toward the door. But Viktor blocked his path, unmoving.
The boy turned again, only to be grabbed by Miguel’s hand clamping down on his wrist.
"I have a sick mother," the boy blurted out, desperation bleeding into his words. He thought the truth might soften them.
Miguel’s lip curled. "I have three million followers waiting for to ss up, boy. Now help us swallow this before I spank that ass."
The boy hesitated. He had never done drugs before. His job was lap dances, not this. He didn’t know how his body would handle it.
Miguel sighed in irritation, gripping the boy’s chin roughly.
"No, I don’t want to." The boy tried to twist away, but Miguel’s strength pinned him in place with humiliating ease.
"We’ll shove it down his throat," Trish said firmly, her hands trembling as she grabbed for the powder.
"Hurry up. We don’t have much ti," Viktor snapped, checking his watch. His tone carried no patience. He didn’t want to be standing here when the SWAT team stord the private lounge.
Trish forced the powder into the boy’s mouth, her hands shaky but determined.
"Just swallow it. Just... just take it," she urged, pouring liquor after it, tilting his head back.
She thought the alcohol would help wash it down fast.
"No, no, please—" The boy coughed hard, panic rising in his throat, but Trish didn’t stop.
She kept forcing the liquor down, thinking it was only a minor cough.
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