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The exchange once again devolves into a heated round of unbroken eye contact. Ignored by both, Dahlia runs her fingers through her hair while I scan Bellamy’s plate, tallying up each and every remaining item. There’s more than half of his steak left. He barely even touched the potato. The toast is missing only one bite.
My hand shoots into the air to flag down a passing waiter. “Can I get a to-go box, please?”
“You’ve disgraced me, Ms. King,” Adrian Riley declares so apologetically that I flinch. “Feel free to take your time and finish your meal. We do not mind.” He glances at Dahlia, who nods dutifully.
“I… It’s alright,” I stammer. “I’m full, really. It’s just… very important for me to make sure that I eat on aregularschedule to stave off any dangerous side effects. For the sake of those around me, at least.”
A grunt comes from my left—Bellamy’s eyes are glacial when they cut in my direction, picking up on my not-so-subtle tirade.That’s enough.
“I’ll just make sure to finish the rest of this later,” I tell Adrian. Ignoring the glare issued by the man beside me, I carefully shovel both his leftovers and mine into the takeaway box the waiter brings seconds later. By then, Adrian Riley has already stood and extends his arm to help Dahlia to her feet.
“I do hope to see you at the club, Bellamy, Ms. King,” Mr. Riley says, nodding in my direction with yet another smile curling the corners of his mouth.
“Of course, you do.” Bellamy flashes a cold grin in return. “We’ll meet you there.” We remain seated when the two leave, the picture of elegance as they drift across the dining room. The moment they’re out of earshot, I flick open the lid of the to-go box and snatch out the toast.
“Don’t even waste your breath arguing,” I tell Bellamy before shoving the food in his direction.
He’s still scowling, but accepts the offering anyway and takes a bite. He chews slowly, each motion of his jaw exaggerated. I’m sure that Adrian and Dahlia could have safely arrived in China by the time Bellamy finally swallows and stands. “Come on.”
We exit the restaurant to find James already waiting, and with every step toward the car, I sense something harden up in Bellamy like solidifying ice. I’m alarmed to realize that even the food didn’t help. He’s on an island unto himself as James navigates the Mercedes toward a bustling part of Uptown.
When I finally manage to tear my gaze away from him and glance out of the window, my eyes widen, and my heart begins to thump uneasily in my chest. We’re in one of those secluded, posh sections of the city where everything seems to sparkle, and every establishment is blockaded by a security guard. It’s a playground for the Graeme Bellamys of the world while the rest of us contend with the average hole-in-the-wall bar or club. Something tells me that even this so-called “gentleman’s club” doesn’t fit the typical stereotype that name implies.
“We’re here, Sir,” James announces warily.
I glance around. We’ve been in the same spot for the last ten minutes. At first, I’d assumed we were merely stuck in the thick of traffic, but no. James is already parked alongside the curb. Looming above us is a polished building encased in glass, reflecting the lights of the city in a beautiful mosaic. I can’t make out a name or a sign to give the building an identity, but when Bellamy finally wrenches open the door on his side, I assume we’ve reached our mysterious destination.
As I follow him out, my mouth falls open for the second time this evening. “Posh” would be too common a word to describe this place. Breathtaking, maybe? Beautiful? Foreboding?
I can’t decide as I scramble after Bellamy and tiptoe in his shadow. Two men in nondescript black suits stand on either side of the main entrance. They give Bellamy a quick once-over but make no move to bar his entry, and he shoves on a glass handle and barges inside.
The lobby alone is tasteful enough to have been described as a “club” entirely on its own. A distinguished one, perhaps, where the patrons lounge on leather furniture beneath vaulted ceilings and stare at their perfect reflections in the sparkling white-marble floor.
I’d always been ready to name Atelier Noir’s corporate complex as the most impressive building I’ve ever seen, but this place quietly shoves those assumptions aside.
“Mr. Bellamy! Ms. King.” Dahlia stands to greet us beside a massive reception desk. Affixed to the wall behind her are two interlocked golden letters—R.R. They’re a strange set of initials. I would have expected A.R. Maybe he named the club something other than after himself?
“So glad that you could make it,” Dahlia continues. She’s even more stunning in this more-muted lighting, standing tall in her slinky black dress that makesmineresemble something from my Granny’s old muumuu collection. Her dark curls spill down her back, and her smoked-out green eyes glitter as they drift from me and settle over Bellamy. “Adrian is waiting for you. This way.”
I glance over at Bellamy, but his expression reveals nothing as he falls into step behind the beautiful Dahlia. She leads us to a set of elevators and indicates the button to ascend to the upper levels.
“Adrian has put me in charge of you,personally,” she admits, her voice toying with the words. “I would have loved to have given you a tour first, but he made it seem as though your meeting was imperative—”
“Yes,” Bellamy rudely interrupts. “I believe it’s best if we get our… business done and over with. The sooner, the better.”
Dahlia nods with a knowing smile, but doesn’t say anything else until the elevator finally arrives at a floor and the doors open. “This way.”
We travel down a long corridor until Dahlia digs her heels in before a closed wooden door polished to shine. “He’s expecting you,” she tells Bellamy, but when her eyes fall over me, she frowns. “But I’m not sure…”
“I’ll meet him alone.” Bellamy shoulders past her and barges into the office, ruining the somewhat dramatic effect that being led in by Dahlia would create. Nonetheless, Adrian Riley stands in the center of the room with his back to the doorway, ready to greet him. He cuts an imposing figure, and despite meeting him not too long ago for dinner, I still find myself impressed by the way he stands silhouetted against the backdrop of a grand office. The desk is polished oak, and fully-stocked bookshelves line the walls.
Right then, everything makes sense—dinner was a formality. This meeting is the true main event—an arena Graeme Bellamy seems determined to dominate. He squares his shoulders as he steps forward, crossing over an antique Persian carpet.
“I’ll take good care of her,” Dahlia croons to him sweetly before closing the door before I can see how Mr. Riley reacts to the abrupt entry. Alone in the hallway, with the sickly-sweet scent of Dahlia’s perfume in my nose, I’m finally forced to reconcile the bits and pieces of my surroundings that I’ve ignored until now.
The elegant atmosphere. The scantily-dressed women. The handsome men. The gold lettering in the elevator that spelled out a moniker that surely couldn’t be the name of a place that someone likeGraeme Bellamywould ever associate with.
Dahlia scans my face as if aware of every thought circling my brain and then some. Her red lips part into a feral grin, and I suspect she gets great pleasure in drilling home the truth once and for all. “Welcome to the Red Room,” she says sweetly. “Would you prefer cognac or a nice cold beer?”
