Jeremy's POV.
I don't do clubs, not because I'm above them. Not exactly. But because time is currency, and mine is heavly invested. Every hour has a cost. Every encounter, a function. I do not waste hours. I bill them.
And yet there I was, half past midnight in some overpriced lounge pretending to be exclusive, drowning in blue lights, overpriced illusions, and the kind of jazz that made silence sound like a luxury and to top it off, just enough stale air to regret breathing. All that while, sitting in a booth I didn't choose, sipping whiskey I didn't order, with a client I didn't particularly like.
Garth Vanderbilt III. Yes, really. Son of a media Russian baron. Rich, dramatic, a little bored with life, and currently playing "eccentric investor" because being normal rich is apparently too pedestrian for him.
He wanted a club. "To see how the common people suffer," he said, like we were on safari.
I needed him to sign the Caelestis expansion papers. Five resort cities. Six thousand jobs. A billion in liquidity, So I played along.
I smiled through three hours of Garth making outlandish bets, groping women who didn't like him, and throwing cash like he thought we were in 2006 Dubai.
In the midst of the crowd, I noticed someone different, dark hair, light dress, face that did not match the room's usual catalog I was three drinks past my limit and mentally calculating how many more minutes of this I could survive.
And then, suddenly, I wasn't thinking about time anymore
She didn't look at me like people usually do. There was no recognition in her face. No posture shift. No ego polish, just a sideways glance. Brief, intrigued, Unimpressed, and Refreshing.
She wasn't in our section, Just near it. Dancing with a friend, Laughing, Shoulders shaking. Some people perform joy like a marketing campaign. She wore hers like a loose shirt, Careless and Free.
I remember thinking: Does she know the people she's sharing the building with?.
We didn't talk for long. I barely remember how it started. Maybe she said something about the music. Maybe I offered her a drink. I only remember fragments.
The smell of lemon, a unique perfume not the ones most women wear or like.
The way her lip curled when I said I built things like she didn't believe me.
The pause after I asked for her name, like she wasn't sure I deserved it. Then the lights blurred. The noise fell away.
We ended up at the Ephraim Star. My hotel. My suite. My rules. Except none of them applied.
She didn't fawn. She didn't flinch. She didn't even comment on the chandelier that costs more than the average mortgage.
At some point, I think I tried to tell her what I do.
And she laughed.
Not cruelly. Not dismissively. Just… with this soft skepticism.
Like none of it mattered. And maybe it didn't.
The morning hits like an audit.
I wake with the echo of her laugh in my ear and an ache behind my eyes. She's gone. No note. No number. Faint scent of her perfume left on my pillow.
I sit up in bed, sheets cold beside me, and for the first time in months, I feel off-script.
This was not supposed to happen.
Not like this. There are procedures to these things. Protocols, Names, Exits.
But I don't even know hers.
I check the time. 9:23 AM.
Eleven emails. Four missed calls. One panicked text from my assistant:
"BlueTide board is waiting. Please confirm if you're alive."
I should be at the Caelestis Tower right now, demolishing a telecom acquisition in fifteen minutes flat. I should be holding a pen, not nursing a hangover and replaying the image of her walking away.
I drag myself out of bed, shower fast, dress faster. But I can't shake the sense that something was different.
It wasn't just the sex—though the sex was, admittedly, very good i believe.
It was her. Her timing, Her presence. The way she didn't ask for anything. She didn't want a story, Or a selfie, Or a second night.
She just… left.
I find myself in the security office, watching elevator footage. A stupid thing to do. Pathetic, really. But curiosity is expensive, and I pay my dues.
She's barefoot. Shoes in hand. Dress wrinkled. Head high. No hesitation.
"Sir?" my assistant chirps in my earpiece. "You're thirty-two minutes late."
"I'm coming," I reply.
And I am, But not all of me.
Part of me is still in that club. That booth. That second where everything slowed, and a stranger smiled at me like I was just some man not Jeremy Ceaser.
I button my cuffs, straighten my collar, and lock the last thought away:
She didn't need me.
But for some inexplicable reason…
I can't stop thinking about her, her smell, the way she talks, and the way she smiles, all just seems to amaze me.
I parked my car at the parking lot, and came out, adjusting my tie, I could hear my workers chattering and gigling, it's so disgusting, when I hear them talk about me. To avoid them boring into my flesh, I walked hastily into my company, taking long strides, my head held up high, my hands tucked into the pockets of my suit, All black, someone would think I was an assassin, going under cover. The eyes of everyone staring at me was suffocating me, and even though I face this everyday, it's still overbearing, and the ladies staring at me like they were ready to eat me, was just stressing. I strode into the elevator, pressing the elevator button 7, the 7th floor, and the last floor where my office and the meeting hall were located.
I took in a deep breath, getting ready for the day's work, as soon as the elevator stopped, I walked out of the elevator, and walked into my office and I was welcomed by the worried expression on my assistant face, who was walking around my office floor, while staring at the door. I sighed as I walked past him as if nothing was wrong, and sat down resting back on the relaxing chair swirling around, before placing my hands on the desk.