The air changed as soon as the velvet rope fell behind them. The curtain dropped, cutting off the crowded sight.
The bass from the main floor bled into a dull throb, muffled as though someone had pressed a pillow over the world's mouth.
The lighting on this side of the club was softer, though it didn't flatter.
It clung to corners, deepening shadows instead of chasing them away.
Isobel's hand was light on his wrist, but her grip had the precision of someone leading prey rather than company. She didn't look back to check if he was willing to follow.
She simply knew he would.
As they moved deeper into the corridor, past areas off-limits even to some VIPs, she stopped before a pitch-black door with her name attached to the gold plate.
'Isobel Tucker.'
"My personal little room," she said with a playful lilt, as though announcing an accomplishment.
And it was true. The price for one night was sky-high, let alone owning it permanently.
