It's three in the morning when I weave through the crowd, dodging swaying dancers and puddles of spilled drinks on my way to the next private room. Jimmy's texts flash across my screen—a list of rotations I need to hit before sunrise. Room Nine is next. My heart beats faster than my thoughts, each step growing heavier as the night drags on.
The hallway ahead stretches long and narrow, splitting Akira Lounge in two. Twenty private rooms line it like secrets waiting to be whispered. At the far end sits Room Twenty-One—the VIP suite where Clara Smith rotated into that Saturday night. Between 7 p.m. and 7 a.m., 438 guests passed through these doors. Clara's rotation showed she moved through twelve rooms that night. Whether she disappeared inside these walls, on her way home, or just outside, no one knows. But I can feel it in my bones—this place is the key.
After hours of combing through grainy surveillance footage and whispering with other hostesses, the puzzle has narrowed to three names: John Bogle Jr., the smooth-talking banker; Jason Mason, vice president of MM Group; and Jessica, Clara's closest friend. Bogle and Mason were her regulars—and rivals. Men like that don't compete quietly.
And now, on New Year's Eve, I'm here for one reason only: to find Jessica.
The air hums with chaos. Bass thrums through the walls, the scent of alcohol and perfume thick as smoke. Outside, fireworks explode, their echoes tangled with laughter and drunken shouts. The night is alive—wild, manic, and ready to swallow secrets whole.
The flashing strobe lights slice through the haze, dizzying me. I need air.
I slip through the nearest door—an empty room washed in amber light. The door clicks shut, cutting off the music. Silence.
Relief seeps in as I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the cold floor. My hand presses over my chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of my heart. One leg stretched, the other bent, I slip off my pumps with a sigh.
The strapless dress molds to me like a second skin. I can barely breathe, but for once, I don't care. The quiet feels almost dangerous. Then—movement. When I open my eyes, a man sits across from me in the half-light. He's strikingly handsome in a formal three piece black suit and tie, with a whiskey shot held mid-air.
My heart races as I rush to stand up. "Oh, sorry, I didn't realize anyone was here," I stammer, caught by his intense gaze. Embarrassment floods through me, but I can't look away. "This place is... peaceful. Do you mind... Can I enjoy it with you?"
He searches my eyes. I smile uncontrollably at him, admiring his beautiful Middle Eastern face. To my surprise, he stands and extends his hand toward the spot in which he had been sitting, inviting me to come.
Knees together, then bent as I lower myself, I hook my fingers inside the heels of my pumps and clutch the strap of my purse. Rising, I walk toward him.
His towering height and the custom suit jacket accentuate his broad shoulders and trim waist, highlighting his well-defined physique. I hold my breath as butterflies swim in my stomach. His trousers are sleekly tailored, extending to polished shoes.
His crisp white shirt paired with an elegant silk tie tucked underneath his vest adds understated opulence. The diamond cufflinks, Rolex watch, and the matching silk pocket square, along with the perfectly knotted tie, showcase his meticulous attention to detail. I remind myself to breathe. Maintaining eye contact, I walk past the rich, spicy warmth of amber, with its notes of earthy depth and subtle sweetness, like a cozy fire on a cold night. I linger, craving more, and part my lips, subtly inhaling his scent.
His warmth lingers on the leather, and his scent still surrounds me as I sit in his spot. Leaning to one side, I set the pumps on the floor and place my purse on the sofa beside me. As I straighten up, I remind myself to sit upright, elegantly, as I close my eyes, then easing them open again to sweep my gaze over the romantically lit room. "You're right, this is the best seat to enjoy the silence," I say, feigning calmness against my boiling desire to strip him. I resist the urge to bite my lower lip.
Our eyes lock again, and he moves to the opposite side, facing me. I spring up, protesting, "Why don't you sit here too? I can sit anywhere if you don't want to sit with me." I laugh nervously as I add, "I sort of sat anywhere earlier."
He doesn't laugh.
He just watches me.