Jonathan
The music pounds through the walls, low and hypnotic, a bassline designed to loosen inhibitions. The Shining Fox is a sanctuary for the powerful, a fortress built on excess. Every inch of it screams wealth—from the marble floors polished to a mirror finish to the private lounges draped in velvet and leather. To anyone walking in, it's paradise. To me, it's a chessboard. And tonight, my eyes are locked on the queen.
They call her "Doll Face."
I stand by the bar, nursing a drink I barely touch, watching her move across the room with practiced, effortless grace. She wears a fitted black maid uniform that hugs her small frame, the hem just brushing her thighs. Her hair cascades in soft brown waves, swaying with every step. Her face—sweet, almost delicate—is framed by green eyes that seem out of place in a club like this. They should belong to someone who lives in a garden, not someone trapped in a gilded cage. She doesn't belong here.
I've seen her before. Three times, in fact. The first time had been incidental, the kind of encounter where I thought nothing of it—just another beautiful woman passing by as I entertained a client. The second time, I noticed her. The way she moves, the precision of her interactions with the patrons—it's calculated, professional. And then there's her smile: warm but hollow, like the kind of light a star gives off long after it's dead.
The third time seals it. I catch her alone, just for a moment, sitting at the bar with her head bowed, her fingers absently tracing the edge of an empty glass. The look on her face isn't sadness—it's resignation. The kind of quiet surrender I've seen in men I've crushed on my way to the top. People who know they've lost.
That look is why I'm here.
"Whiskey neat, sir?" the bartender asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I nod, though I don't care for another drink. My attention is elsewhere.
Doll Face—Bella—is by one of the booths, speaking to a man I recognize—a hedge fund manager with more money than sense. She leans forward slightly, her hand brushing the edge of the table as she laughs at something he says. The man's gaze never leaves her, and neither does mine.
She excuses herself a moment later, making her way toward the back of the room. I set my glass down, the weight of the crystal hitting the bar louder than I intend. My footsteps carry me across the floor, weaving through clusters of patrons until I follow her into the shadowed corridor that leads to the employee-only section of the club.
"Excuse me," I call her.
She stops, half-turning, her expression neutral. Then recognition flickers across her face. Her lips curve into a polite smile, but her eyes remain guarded.
"Mr. Harper," she greets, her voice smooth but distant. "Is there something I can help you with?"
My surname feels heavy coming from her mouth, almost foreign.
"You remember me."
"You've been here a few times," she replies evenly.
Her smile doesn't waver. She's right. I've been here three times in two weeks.
"I think I enjoy the atmosphere too much."
"Maybe," she agrees, though her tone suggests she doesn't believe me. "If you're looking for one of the hosts, I can arrange that for you."
I take a step closer, watching as her shoulders stiffen slightly. She doesn't retreat, but her grip on the tray she holds tightens.
"Actually, I was looking for you."
Her gaze flickers, surprise breaking through her composure for a fraction of a second before she smooths it over.
"Me? For a private room?"
"I'm not looking for your services. I just wanted to talk."
She stares at me, her expression unreadable.
Then she exhales softly, her shoulders relaxing as though she's come to a decision.
"I don't get paid to talk," she says, though her words lack bite.
"Then let me make it worth your while."
Her lips twitch, but it isn't a smile this time. It's something closer to disdain. She shakes her head slightly, brushing past me as she heads further down the hall. "Goodnight, Mr. Harper."
But I'm not done. "Why do you stay?"
My question stops her in her tracks. Her back stiffens, her fingers curling into a fist at her side. For a moment, I think she might keep walking, but then she turns slowly, her expression colder now.
"That's none of your business," she says tightly.
"It could be mine."
She blinks, clearly not expecting the response. I take a step closer, keeping my voice low.
"Everyone here is playing a game, sweetheart. You know that better than anyone. But the question is, who's playing you?"
Her breath hitches, just slightly, but it's enough. I see the crack in her armor, the flash of vulnerability she tries so hard to hide.
"You know nothing about me," she says softly, almost a whisper.
"But I know enough to see you're too smart to be a pawn."
For a moment, she says nothing. Then her lips curve into that hollow smile again, the one that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I have to work. Goodnight," she repeats, before disappearing through the door at the end of the hall.
I let her go this time, but my mind is already working. Bella isn't just another girl working in a club. She's something more—someone trapped in a game she didn't choose to play.
And if there's one thing I'm very skilled at, it's winning games.
As I walk back toward the main floor, I catch sight of Ted sitting in one of the VVIP lounges. His presence is impossible to miss—the tailored suit, the air of command, the way people gravitate toward him like planets orbiting a star.
Our eyes meet briefly across the room, and he gives me a nod of acknowledgment. On the surface, it's polite, but I see the calculation in his gaze. He knows I'm not here for the drinks.
Great. Let him wonder. Let him try to figure out what I want. Because by the time he realizes it, I'll already have it.
And that starts with her.
As I step out into the crisp night air, I pull my phone from my pocket, dialing a familiar number.
"Andy," I say when he answers. "I need everything you can find on Ted and his club. Start tonight."
I end the call without waiting for a response, my mind already working two moves ahead.
If he thinks he can control her, he's wrong.
Because I'm about to rewrite the rules of his game.