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CHAPTER ONE
ETHAN CALLAHAN
“Who isthe woman sitting alone at the bar?” I lean over Vince's shoulder to get a closer look at the monitor.
“I don't know, Mr. Callahan. Would you like me to head down and inspect the area?” Vince is one of my senior and most-trusted security guards. He stands, anticipating my directive.
The security control room is my fortress of solitude, a dimly lit chamber lined with sleek, black panels and rows of monitors. Each monitor is a window into the pulsating life of Club Allure.
I take Vince's seat, sinking into the supple leather that contours to my form like a second skin. The faint hum of electronics is the heartbeat of this place, the steady rhythm syncing with my own.
My eyes scan the grid of screens, each flickering with the vivid colors and movement of a different scene. It's all routine until one monitor pulls me in—a lone figure perched at the bar amid a sea of festive patrons.
A goddess among mortals.
Her delicate frame is draped over the bar counter, an untouched drink casting a long shadow beside her. There's an elegance to her posture that belies her casual setting—a dancer'sgrace in repose. Yet something's off. A tension in her shoulders, an invisible weight that seems to bow her ever so slightly.
As I zoom in on her face, my breath catches at the sight of olive-green eyes that seem to hold worlds within them—deep and expressive, with a touch of melancholy that doesn’t belong in a place like this. Dark hair cascades down her back, untouched by the strobe lights' frenetic dance.
An inexplicable pull tightens in my chest, an instinctive need to ensure she's safe. It's unusual—I'm not one for unnecessary intervention. My days of playing hero are long past, burned away by too many disappointments. But something about this woman strikes a chord within me, resonating in a frequency I thought I'd silenced long ago.
I lean closer to the screen as if proximity could grant me insight into her story. Her fingers tap an absent rhythm on the counter—perhaps she's waiting for someone, or maybe she wishes to be anywhere but here. Then I notice two men staring at her.
“Shit,” I mumble under my breath, a bad feeling welling up inside me.
Vince's words echo back at me: “Would you like me to head down and inspect the area?” But no, this requires my personal attention—something I haven't felt compelled to offer in far too long.
“Stay here,” I murmur more to myself than to Vince as he exits the room. “Keep an eye on everything else.”
I push back from the console, every instinct honed from years of watching over this club telling me there's more beneath the surface with this woman—more than just another patron lost in the thrumming bass and whispered promises of fleeting connections.
With one last glance at the monitor, I rise from my chair.
I slip an earpiece into my ear to communicate with the rest of my team while I'm on the floor. I leave the quiet of the control room and step into the chaos of the club.
The neon lights dance across the dance floor as the DJ plays a custom blend of the hottest music on the charts. I weave through the crowd, making purposeful strides to the bar.
Five years ago, Jackson, Landon, Damien, Andres, and myself opened Club Allure, an elite club in New York City. We each have designated tasks to ensure everything runs smoothly. I handle the safety and security of our high-profile guests.
It suits me.
I prefer a much quieter, somewhat anonymous presence and role. Almost as if I were a voyeur, I prefer to stay alone in the control room and watch everything in silence, away from the world.
Offering false smiles and nurturing egos doesn't suit me. Instead, I observe the movement of the club from the engine room, rather than having to get involved in the usual bustle of Club Allure.
It is precisely this distance that allows me to notice the strange situation in which the woman finds herself.
I move forward, ignoring the interested stares and stop only when I see her sitting at the end of the bar. She's more beautiful in person than any security monitor could ever convey.
As I draw closer, the details of her appearance sharpen into focus. She isn't particularly tall or short, standing at an average height that's accentuated by her slender frame. The dark dress she wears hugs her figure in all the right places, showcasing a toned physique.
I can't help but admire her. She's magnetic, a force that commands attention without even trying. It's as if she belongs to a different narrative—one that doesn't fit here.
In another lifetime, and if I were a different man, I'd pursue her. But I've built walls for a reason, and they're meant to keep me from getting drawn into situations—or attractions—that could end like before.
Despite my better judgment, my body responds to her presence with an intensity that's hard to ignore. My pulse quickens with each step.
The way she holds herself—there's a story there, one I instinctively want to unravel. It's dangerous territory for someone like me who long ago decided to keep personal entanglements at arm's length.
