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CHAPTER ONE
Merrick
I stride into the steel and glass jungle that is my office, the click of my Italian leather shoes echoing power with every step. Screens flicker to life and phones trill their siren songs as I pass, yet none of that touches the silence in my chest. Meetings stack up like a deck of cards, ready to tumble at the slightest breeze. I’m may be the man with the Midas touch when it comes to business, but when it comes to anything warm, anything resembling a heartbeat—I'm bankrupt.
I don’t do distractions. I don’t do close connections. People are variables in equations, predictably unpredictable, better kept at arm's length where they can be managed, controlled.
I scowl when my phone buzzes. Fucking Stephen. Always changing our meeting place at the last minute. If he wasn’t a necessary associate, I’d have cut ties with him long ago. Unsurprisingly, he wants to meet at a bar. Not my scene at all, but fuck it. I just want to get this meeting over instead of playing the back and forth dance of rescheduling it a thousand times.
So, I head over to the club the dumb ass thinks is appropriate for our meeting.
Fucking idiot.
I’m still scowling when I step into the night club. I do not want to be here. The bass pulses through the club like a second heartbeat, and I can feel it thrumming under my skin. A kaleidoscope of lights dances across the sea of bodies, casting everyone in a flickering, multicolored glow. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and perfume, a cocktail of human desire.
I weave through the crowd, my scowl deepening when people bump into me. The patrons are a blur of hedonistic pursuit, each one chasing the night's promise of oblivion or ecstasy. Laughter rings out, sharp and sudden, while a group of women in glittering dresses takes turns sipping from a bottle of champagne as if it's mother's milk.
And then, I see her.
I come to a complete stop and just stare. I don’t know what it is about her, but I can’t look away.
She has a pink streak in her blonde hair that’s like a beacon in the dim light, a flag of defiance in a world that tries to fit you into neat, little boxes. And it's not just the hair that catches me—it's the way she holds herself, a blend of vulnerability and steely determination that tells a story without words.
She's positively radiant amidst the chaos, her face an open book of emotions that don't belong in this place: hope, weariness, and a resilience that makes me want to step closer, to become part of her narrative.
And she’s young—so young. The girl can’t be more than nineteen, but her eyes tell a tale of someone much older than her years.
And something about that doesn’t sit right from me.
I snap out of my daze when Stephen calls my name, hailing me over to him. I head over to the corner booth he’s secured. He already has drinks waiting, but I don’t touch mine.
I’m too busy watching her as I try to conduct business. Hell, if Stephen only knew the state of my mind right now he might could swindle me into anything. Thankfully, my reputation precedes me, and business wraps up as it should.
I watch her from the shadows of my corner booth, a silent observer to the delicate balance she maintains between the rowdy patrons and her own guarded composure. Her laughter rings out, too loud, too bright—it's armor, I realize. The way she moves through the throng, it's graceful but deliberate. She's a swan on a pond full of snapping turtles, and every part of me wants to wade in and whisk her away.
And then she’s approaching us.
My heart rate ticks up.
"Anything else I can get you?" she asks with a practiced ease, slipping the empty glasses from my table. But her eyes, they don't match the casual lilt of her voice. They're a deep blue ocean where secrets and wishes drown. There's loneliness there, a kind that echoes in the hollows of my own chest, and it strikes a chord.
“I’m good, Abby,” Stephen smiles at her, and I glare at him, envious that he knows her name when I don’t.
Abby.
She nods, and then those seaglass-green eyes are trained on me. They’re big and beautiful and framed by thick, dark lashes. A pert little nose and lush full lips, pink cheeks flushed.
Fuck, she’s like a sex doll come to life. How in the hell is every man in here not salivating at just the sight of her?
"Nothing more, thanks," I murmur, my throat tightening with unsaid words. I watch as she nods, ponytail bobbing, the pink streak a bold slash of rebellion flicking defiantly with each step. That streak is her scream into the void, a plea for someone to see her, really see her—not just the pretty face, the body, the facade... but Abby. Vibrant, dreaming, struggling Abby.
Because I already know she has dreams. This girl has to know that she’s made for more than this. They don’t fucking deserve her here.
She's alone in this sea of bodies and noise, even surrounded by people. It's a loneliness I know too well—standing in a crowd, yet feeling invisible. Abby doesn't belong here, among spilled drinks and slurred come-ons. She's made for sunlit mornings and laughter that's real, for dreams that stretch beyond the smoky haze of this place.
The thought of leaving her in this world without reaching out, without knowing her story, it claws at me. But I'm the guy in the tailored suit, the one whose smile is both weapon and shield. How do I approach her without setting off alarms? Without being just another transaction in her night?
Then it hits me—a modern solution for an age-old problem. I'll find her online. It's not ideal, but it's something. A way to learn about her without scaring her off. It's innocent enough, isn't it? Just a peek into her world, nothing creepy, nothing over the line. Just...interest.
