I pace the length of my room, waiting. My phone dings.
Jessica: John's here tonight.
Another text follows.
Jimmy: Your client's here but he doesn't want you coming in.
It's been five days since that morning. I can't wait any longer. By the time I reach the club, I already know my plan—blend in, stay invisible. Clone John's phone. Room Twenty's packed: nine men, nine hostesses. Perfect cover. John's with a woman I don't recognize. Curly hair, hourglass figure. Her name tag reads Maria. She only works once a month.
In the restroom, I slip beside her at the mirror.
"Does John really tip like everyone says?" I ask casually.
"Oh, yeah. You new?" she says, fluffing her curls.
I smile. "That obvious?"
She laughs. "Your question gave it away."
"You two seem close. He's picky—so you must be a favorite."
She shrugs. "He always asks for me—unless Clara's around."
My pulse skips. "Clara?"
"Yeah. His favorite. Used to be, anyway."
"I heard she sat with Nathan, not John."
Maria's eyes narrow. "You like Nathan."
Heat rises to my cheeks as I bite my lips while my mind conjures up Mr. Silence's image. "Is it that obvious?"
"Pretty much," she says, smirking.
I play along. "So... Clara—was she into John or Jason?"
"Not like that. John just wanted her in the room. But Jason's into her too."
My breath catches. "Jason Mason?"
"Yeah. There was an incident a few months ago. She sat with him and showed up later with a black eye."
I lower my voice. "What happened?"
She shrugs. "No one knows. But everyone heard about the fight—John and Jason, screaming in the hallway. Over her."
Her words echo in my head long after I leave the restroom. The hallway hums with muffled bass and laughter, the kind that hides more secrets than joy. My heels click softly against the marble as I walk, replaying Maria's story in my mind. A fight. A black eye. Two powerful men—and one girl who vanished.
I need to find someone who saw it happen. A witness.
Then I feel it—before I see him.
That familiar scent, warm and intoxicating, hits me like static in the air. A shadow stretches over me, and my heart stops.
I look up. The anger in Mr. Silence's eyes tightens the space between his brows. My breath stumbles. For a split second, I'm sixteen again—standing outside my high school gates, catching sight of Roberto through the crowd. That same electric jolt of recognition. That same reckless joy.
He doesn't speak. Just takes my hand. And before I can think, I'm following him again—helplessly, foolishly, the way I always do.
He releases me only after the door shuts behind us—the same empty room where we first met.
"What are you—" he starts.
"I miss you," I whisper, my lips brushing his cheek before I can stop myself. I'd rehearsed those words, but I didn't expect to mean them.
His eyes search mine. I wrap my arms around him, holding tighter than I should. "I just wanted to sneak in to see you… then leave."
His silence weighs heavy—thick as gravity. I remind myself why I'm here. I need access to Jason's room. I need answers.
"But now that I see you…" I murmur, leaning in to kiss his cheek again—but he catches my lips instead. The kiss is the same as before—urgent, consuming—but I feel the ache this time. The distance. The impossibility.
I press my lips to his chin. I remember how it makes his eyes soften with curiosity, that flicker of warmth I've learned to crave. "I want to stay with you. Can I go—"
His phone interrupts. Jason's name flashes across the screen.
"Where are you—"
He hangs up before Jason can finish and steps away from me.
A sigh escapes me, small and soundless. He turns to the door.
"Stay," he commands, and leaves.
Stay? In here? Why won't he let me into Jason's room? His room?
Curiosity gnaws at me. I wait, then slip out. The hallway vibrates with bass. When he opens the door to Room Twenty-One, the music swallows him whole. I catch the beat before it fades, the laughter, the clinking glasses—and follow.
The room is packed, bodies moving under pulsing light and heavy bass. A stranger's hand snags my arm, yanking me to the right. I stumble—startled—and spin to face him, but before I can react, another force pulls me back.
Mr. Silence.
He moves fast, wrapping an arm around me, pulling me flush against his chest. The stranger's hand slips away beneath the weight of his glare.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Johnson," Jason's voice slices through the music, smooth and precise. "She doesn't work here."
The man blinks, confused, then melts back into the crowd. Mr. Silence doesn't let go. His hand stays firm at my waist, steering me out of the room—his touch equal parts protection and possession.
We end up in the same dimly lit suite where everything once blurred into heat and breath. The door shuts, sealing us inside. His lips find mine before I can speak, a fierce collision that steals air and thought. His body pins me to the wall, his kiss all demand and hunger.
It's too much—too intoxicating—and yet my mind keeps whispering Clara's name. My pulse spikes. I taste the danger I've been pretending not to feel.
"Were you protecting me from Jason?" I murmur against his mouth, my question slipping out between gasps.
He stills. His eyes narrow, searching mine, the faintest trace of confusion threading through his composure.
"I'm wrong, aren't I?" I whisper, softening my voice, letting it wrap around him like silk. I tilt my face up, letting the corner of my lips brush his. "My love…" My fingers trace the edge of his jaw, then slide down to rest over his pounding heart. "Does Jason work for you?"
His hand shoots up, gripping my wrist. The other presses against the small of my back, pulling me hard against the heat of him. His voice is low, dangerous, threaded with restraint.
"What are you really after, Ace?"
The sound of my name in his mouth sends a shiver through me. For a second, the room disappears—the music, the danger, the case—everything but him.
How does he know my name?
No. He can't. I'm just another hostess in his eyes. Aren't I?
"I—" The words barely leave my lips before his mouth silences them. Whatever I meant to say dissolves into the heat between us. His kiss devours thought, leaving only instinct—raw, reckless, wrong.
The rest is sinfully delicious, a blur of want and surrender that shouldn't have happened… and yet I don't stop it. I can't.
Afterward, I lie cocooned against him—bare, breathless, undone. One word keeps circling in my mind: surreal. Just like that night at the hotel. Being with him feels like stepping outside of time itself, into some suspended pocket of existence where nothing else matters.
In that space, reality blurs. I can't tell where he begins or where I end. It's as if we've melted into one being, one pulse, one breath. And yet... I know this feeling. The warmth of his skin, the gravity of his silence. I know him.
Mr. Silence. Roberto. It can't be. Roberto is dead. Two men—different names, different lives. But every part of me insists they're the same.
His phone lights up again—for the eighth time. Jason. Mr. Silence lifts it to his ear, his voice low, measured, and unhurried, like a man who's never had to raise it to be obeyed.
As he speaks, he stands, calm and deliberate. His movements are effortless, rehearsed—buttoning his off-white dress shirt with one hand, smoothing the cuff with a thumb before securing the platinum clasp of his Patek Philippe 3970. The gesture is precise, habitual, like muscle memory.
Everything about him whispers wealth—not the kind that needs to be flaunted, but the kind so ingrained it shapes posture, silence, and the spaces he leaves between words.
I see it now. Jason Mason isn't his equal—he's his shadow.
If Clara was entangled with Jason, then Mr. Silence must have orchestrated it.
But who is he, really? A protector… or an abuser wearing elegance like armor?