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Jackson appears on another monitor again. This time he glances up toward one of our cameras—a silent question in his eyes. Everything good?
I nod once even though he can't see me—it’s more for myself than him.
It's not good—not yet—but it will be.
With one last glance over the screens, I turn over the task to a team member. I step away from the monitors and head to my office upstairs. It's time to meet with my partners—we've got moves to make before this night is out.
As I exit the control room, I take one last look at Club Allure alive beneath me—a reminder of what we're fighting for—and it fuels me forward into whatever comes next.
I push open the door to my office and slump into the chair, my body protesting the long hours.
I flick on a desk lamp, and its glow washes over scattered blueprints and security protocols. My phone vibrates with a string of updates from my crew, but it's one message that halts my scrolling—a photo attachment from an unknown sender.
I open it and find myself staring at an unfamiliar face caught in the grainy resolution of our security feed. A woman, her eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses, even indoors. She's in one of the quieter corners of the club, sipping a drink, scanning the room with an intensity that screams more than casual interest.
My instincts kick into overdrive. She's been here before—never engaging, always watching. It clicks then—she's not just another club-hopper.
I make a decision in that heartbeat—contact her.
With a few taps on my phone, I send out a discreet message to our security team,Bring her up.
Minutes tick by like hours until there's a soft knock at my door. Jackson steps in first, his eyes questioning. Behind him is the woman from the security feed—tall, with an air of confidence that fills the room.
“Mr. Callahan,” she says, her voice steady.
“Miss…?”
“You don't need my name.”
“Then why are you surveilling my club?”
“Because we have some common interests. Dexter Whitmore and Brandon Prescott.”
I nod at Jackson to close the door behind him as he exits. “Continue.”
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a sleek thumb drive, placing it on my desk with deliberate care.
“That contains everything you need to know about them—their transactions, communications... their plans for your club.”
My heart races at the implications of what she’s handing me. “Why are you giving this to me?”
She takes off her sunglasses, revealing eyes that have seen too much. “Because I want them taken down as much as you do.”
It's not trust that passes between us—it's understanding and mutual need.
I extend my hand to take the drive. “How can I be sure this is legit?”
“You can’t,” she says with a shrug of nonchalance that doesn't quite match her guarded eyes. “But I'm not asking for anything in return—not yet.”
We're playing with fire here—this could be genuine intel or an elaborate trap laid by Dexter himself—but something in her demeanor tells me she's on the level.
“Thank you,” I say, pocketing the drive before offering her my hand again—this time in alliance.
She shakes it firmly and heads for the door before pausing. “Be careful, Mr. Callahan,” she warns with a glance that carries more weight than her words alone could convey.
“I always am,” I assure her with a nod. “And call me Ethan.”
She nods. “Call me Chloe.”
