The apartment was empty.
It had been that way for three days now, ever since her brother had vanished, leaving nothing but an overturned chair, a pile of unpaid bills, and a debt that weighed heavier than her entire body.
Mia Roselyn Hart stared at the notice clutched in her trembling hands. Another final warning. Another threat scribbled across the paper in red ink. The landlord had been patient, too patient, but his patience had finally dried up. Tomorrow, she and her brother would be thrown out into the streets.
Except… her brother wasn't even here.
He had slipped away in the middle of the night, probably chasing another desperate game of poker or dice. And as always, he had left her to pick up the pieces of his recklessness.
Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. She had no parents, no family besides him. When their mother had died, when their father had walked out years before that, it had been just the two of them. She had clung to her brother because she had no one else. But every day, she wondered if he clung to her or simply used her.
Now, with her life in ruins, she needed money. Urgently.
Which was how she ended up standing in front of a velvet-draped doorway that led to a place she swore she'd never enter. Eclipse. The most exclusive, most dangerous nightclub in the city. A den for the rich, the powerful, and the untouchable. Rumors said it wasn't only humans who walked those halls, but Mia had never let herself believe in monsters.
Still, she knew one thing: if you wanted to sell your soul for money, Eclipse was the place to do it.
The bass of the music rattled through her chest as she stepped inside.
Her cheap dress itched against her skin, the borrowed heels pinched her toes, and the tray they had shoved into her hands shook slightly as she adjusted her grip. She was nothing here. Just another desperate girl hired to serve drinks to men whose shoes probably cost more than her rent.
"Don't screw this up," the manager hissed at her as they wove through the crowd. "Stay out of trouble. Don't look anyone in the eye. And whatever you do—when you're sent upstairs, don't argue. Just do your job and walk away."
Upstairs.
Her stomach knotted. Everyone whispered about upstairs—the private lounge reserved for only the most important clients. The ones who could buy and sell lives with the snap of their fingers.
Tonight, she would be serving them.
The manager stopped in front of an elevator guarded by two men in black suits, each one built like a wall. They scanned her once, their gazes sharp enough to slice flesh, before stepping aside.
"You'll be fine," the manager muttered, though his voice carried no conviction. "Just… don't anger him."
Him?
The elevator doors slid shut before she could ask.
The private lounge wasn't noisy like the club below. It was quiet, almost reverent, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears until every breath felt too loud. Plush leather couches lined the walls, golden chandeliers dripped light like molten honey, and smoke from expensive cigars curled into the air.
And at the center of it—he sat.
Asher Lucien Valerius.
The man everyone whispered about. The one the city feared.
He didn't need to speak to command the room. His presence was enough. He sat like a king among mortals, impossibly handsome, dangerously cold, his obsidian eyes sharp and merciless. A black tailored suit clung to his tall frame, his long fingers draped lazily over the glass in his hand. Around him, men of power bent their heads, waiting for his nod, his permission, his attention.
When Mia entered, his gaze shifted.
Just once. Just enough to pin her in place.
Her heart thudded violently against her ribs, each beat loud in her ears. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to escape before she made a mistake. She couldn't look directly at him; the weight of his gaze was too heavy. Somehow, trembling, she lowered her head, forcing herself to stay in place, barely daring to breathe.
Still, her hands shook as she crossed the room, balancing the tray with drinks meant for the untouchable elite. She told herself to breathe, to walk straight, to not trip. Her heels clicked against the marble floor, each step echoing too loudly.
She could feel his eyes following her. Watching. Studying.
By the time she reached his table, her throat had gone dry.
"Your drinks, sir," she managed, her voice steadier than she felt.
A pause. Silence stretched too long, and when she finally forced herself to look up, she found him smirking at her—slow, dangerous, as if he knew every thought running through her head.
"New," Asher said, his voice smooth, deep, commanding. It wasn't a question.
Mia swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."
His smirk widened. "I can always tell."
Her pulse thundered in her ears. She hated how easily he unsettled her. Hated how he leaned back in his seat, utterly relaxed, while she struggled to keep her hands from trembling.
"What's your name?"
She hesitated. Giving her name felt dangerous, like handing over a piece of herself. But the weight of his gaze left her no room for refusal.
"Mia Roselyn Hart."
His tongue curled lazily over the syllables, tasting the sound as though he owned it. "Mia Roselyn Hart. Sweet."
Heat crept up her neck, anger flaring to cover her fear. "You should drink, sir, before the ice melts."
A few of the men around him stiffened, as if waiting for her to be struck down for her insolence. But Asher only chuckled, low and dangerous, the sound of a predator amused by prey.
"You're bold," he murmured. "I like that."
She pressed her lips together, forcing her expression to remain neutral. Inside, her stomach churned. Bold? No. She was terrified. But she would rather bite her tongue in half than let him see it.
Unfortunately, she had a sinking feeling he already did.
Because when his eyes met hers again, amusement glinted there, sharp as a blade. As if he could hear every frantic beat of her heart.
She left the lounge as quickly as she could, her chest heaving once she was safely back in the noisy club. She pressed a hand against her ribcage, as though she could steady the wild hammering inside.
Never again, she told herself. She would serve any table, scrub any floor, beg for any other task. But she would not walk into that lounge again.
She had no idea, as she clutched her tray and tried to breathe, that she had already been claimed.
And when predators claimed something, they never let go.