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Chapter 1
Aurora
Misha Petrov; 22. Aurora D’Angelo; 18.
“Abbie, wait for me,” I whisper-hiss as I grab hold of my best friend’s arm just as we’re about to enter the popular nightclub she’s dragged me to. “Don’t you dare leave me alone.”
Abbie lets out a burst of laughter, playfully rolling her eyes at me. “Like I’d ever do that.”
She takes hold of my hand, and I stick close to her as a bouncer allows us to enter. We’re met by a lady who’s dressed in a black silk top and pants, her blonde hair twisted up in a perfect bun.
She gives us a professional, welcoming smile while she checks our IDs, then waves us toward the lower level where we have to push through the crowd already in full party mode.
“Damn, this place is packed,” I have to shout so Abbie can hear me. “You weren’t joking when you said it’s popular.”
Abbie leans closer. “Hopefully, the VIP section won’t be as busy.”
Nodding at her, I grip her hand tightly, so we don’t get separated in the madness. It looks like every single person in Geneva is at the nightclub.
I’ve always suffered from claustrophobia, and being bumped and shoved by random strangers is not my definition of fun.
This is my first time at a nightclub, and it’s only because of Abbie that I’m here. My parents think I’m safely at her house, and so do my bodyguards, who are probably still standing guard outside Abbie’s suite at the Sartori vacation mansion.
My parents reluctantly agreed that I could visit Abbie for a week before Easter. Because my parents know the Sartoris, I was only given two guards. Abbie has sneaking out down to an art form, though, and she made it look so easy to escape my ever-present guards.
With curious eyes, I take in everything around me. The club's interior is dark, with colorful, strobing lights pulsing to the fast beat filling the air. There are bars on either side of the huge dance floor, with bartenders rushing to fill the orders.
People are laughing and talking, and men are flirting with women. A big group dances in the middle of the room as if they have endless energy. It fills the atmosphere with an exciting vibe that’s infectious.
It’s surreal.
When we climb the stairs to the VIP section, fear spins in my stomach. If my father finds out I’m at a club, there will be hell to pay.
He won’t find out. Chill.
Abbie smiles at the bouncer, who looks like a mountain of a man, then she says, “Sartori and D’Angelo.”
The bouncer’s eyes flick to me before he unhooks the heavy burgundy corded rope so we can enter the VIP section.
I know my family name carries a lot of power, but being away at a boarding school for most of my life, I’m not used to wielding it to get what I want. Now that we’re done with school, Abbie is adjusting to the socialite life quicker than I am.
Leaning into Abbie, I ask, “He won’t tell our parents?”
She scoffs. “Of course not. Relax.”
Glancing around, my fear is quickly forgotten.
Oh wow, it’s much better in the VIP section.
Comfortable burgundy sofas and dark wood coffee tables fill the left side of the floor that’s bathed in luxury. There are potted plants and statues of cherubs and angels everywhere. The lights are dimmed, and there aren’t any strobing lights up here.
With the music coming from the lower level, the atmosphere up here feels intimate and not as chaotic. I can actually hear myself think.
“This is much better,” I tell Abbie as we walk to an available sofa.
Taking a seat on the expensive fabric, Abbie grins at me. “Don’t worry. After a couple of drinks, you’ll be ready to hit the dance floor.”
“You know I can’t dance to save my life.” I let out a chuckle as I glance at the bar. The three bartenders are wearing suits, whereas the ones downstairs are dressed in black shirts and trousers.
