Chapter 3 CHA

LILITH

Cass Lyon's right about something-I'm not leaving without a plan. At present, if he were to try to go after me through the law, I'm not in doubt that he would win.

Recee needs a story.

I'm young, but not vulnerable.

I'm not afraid of this villain.

Not without laying in some punches first.

Cass Lyon might be the rich boy.

But I'm the girl with the microphone.

A knock at the door has me facing as Lydia arrives, her brows furrowed with concern. "Where are your bags?"

"The airline lost them."

Her eyes widen in shock. "Dios mío. I can give you a ride to shop, if you'd like-or send you to the top boutiques."

I glance down at my wrinkle-creased outfit. I must have something to wear tonight if I don't go today. "Maybe not the top boutiques," I remark tactfully. "If I called and told them what I needed, could they drop a few things off?"

"Sure thing."

"And a wig," I go on, setting my phone on the dresser and unpinning the gloomy bun I threw together an hour before. "Blond.".

She doesn't flinch. "You need to go out on the beach. We've got a pool too, and a jacuzzi. Enjoy yourself before work starts. You're too young to be so serious."

That strikes somewhere deep within me. Her words are not supposed to hurt, but they do.

Inspirited, I reach for my computer.

She's right. Just because I'm here doesn't mean I can't enjoy myself a little.

Defiance hums in my fingers as I send a text to Recee with a rough new verse.

My agreement states I'll play for Cass Lyon.

It doesn't state that I have to do it nicely.

CASS

"We're here, señor," Frank Dera says, catching my eye in the rearview mirror as we pull into the club.

I smooth my suit. "Thank you, Frank."

"You sure you're ready?"

I frown. "It's a Thursday night like any other.".

Aside from the fact that it doesn't quite feel like that. There's something humming in my chest, all twisted up like I've already been at it.

I slip out before Frank opens the door for me. He comes on anyway, catching the handle with habitual stubbornness as I zip up my coat.

"It's a new club. Renovations just completed. New talent, too," he adds as I make for the back door.

I do, look back at him. He only nods.

New talent, I imagine.

Security straightens when they see me. Eyes follow every step I take as I do have a storm brewing in my wake.

And I do.

A man with a mission is a danger to the world.

A man without one? A danger to himself.

I don't move into places. I stake them out. I make it unmistakable-what belongs to me, I take. The sooner everyone learns that, the fewer problems for everyone.

When I bought Clody, it was in ruins. Even its own name-"below" on the sign-sounds like a curse, not a name.

But I see potential where there isn't any. I dig up, I sharpen, I bring back to life.

Today? The building is a pulse. A promise. A reminder.

My parents should come and see.

The thought seeps into my brain like a wisp of smoke. I send it packing as a young actress stumbles my way, weaving from the front of the club.

"Cass," she slurs, drunk and glowing under the stage lights. "You've been avoiding me."

"You came to catch up and have a drink with me," I reply levelly. "I succeeded."

Her hand drifts towards my chest, and I take her hand away delicately, pulling it back without hesitation.

There is disappointment in her eyes. Desire. Hope.

But I am not that man.

No longer.

Once, I chased beautiful women like they were foreign exchange. Now, I chase something less common.

Control. Precision. Power that never says sorry.

Love? That was my mistake. That was giving a woman my life-my future-for nothing. Money was cheap to what it cost me.

Never again.

I nod to security to keep her under watch as I move along.

The music strikes before the door even opens-low and thick and ravenous. I climb the stairs to the second floor. My own personal booth is waiting. Below, the sea of bodies swirls, bodies moving like heat waves in the darkness.

I stand just within the doorway, letting it all filter into my bones.

Lydia told me Lilith would sing tonight. Toro told me so too.

I knew she would show up.

She's passionate, yes. But not dumb.

I would've sued her to oblivion. Fast enough she'd be on her ass before she even got to customs.

We bumped into each other at Kia Leo's wedding, when I still clung to the illusion of charm.

She strode in like wrath in stilettos.

Eviscerated me as if I hadn't constructed my empire brick by bloody brick.

I thanked her-very fucking little-for the gratuitous advice.

She didn't like that.

One tweet. That was all it took to ruin my figures at White Kats in one night. Sent my PR staff into a whirlwind. Blacklisted her by half the London-to-Florida clubs.

And a part of me?

Respected her for it.

It reminded me of something I'd forgotten long ago: what it feels like to feel something real.

"Whisky, Mr. Lyon?" the bartender shouts.

"In my booth."

"Sí, señor. You have a visitor."

Before I can demand who's in my room, he's gone.

I round the corner-and stop.

"Let me take a wild guess-half of your renovation budget went to walls, half to whisky."

Mucha sits with his typical slump and smirk, polo shirt and khakis, mixing a drink.

"Mucha. Didn't know you were stopping by."

"Premier League's canceled. Thought I'd crash your latest empire."

"I've opened two more since."

"Still here, though. Hiding?"

I shoot him an evil stare. "I'm unwinding."

He grins. "Indeed. That's why your jaw's tighter than your budget margins."

Mucha's younger, faster. A striker for one of England's top teams and too damn sharp for his own good.

"You look positively rejuvenated," he goes on.

I ignore him, drink the thirty-year-old Pete Mystk whisky on its monogrammed napkin.

"God love 'em, they were always so wasteful," he whispers.

"You don't know what they'd want. You were still a kid when they died."

That silences him. For a breath.

"I thought it changed you being with her," he says finally. "You paced yourself. Smiled. Behaved like a human being again."

I take a drink. Burn is more gratifying than anything I can think of saying back to him.

Love is a legend. Soothes the blade.

And I can't afford to have dull edges.

Downstairs, the crowd riples in a beat that is almost feral. Music thunders off the walls. The air is dense.

"Bladina said I had to see the show," Mucha bellows above the noise. "She said a woman tore you new one too."

I haven't been able to respond before the lights dim.

Shut up. Then-

White light blazes down on the stage.

And there she is.

Lilith.

Blond wig glistening like halo fire, body smooth and unyielding in strobes. She bends over gear like she's carving reality out of beats and basslines.

White Kats' new headliner, Mucha says. "The name suits her."

My jaw is clenched.

"She owes me," I snarl. "Even queens settle their debts."

But God pity me, I am unable to walk away.

She is that girl-the one we all fantasized about in boarding school. Not because she was compassionate. But because she wasn't.

Rebellion incarnate.

And when her eyes lift-when they meet mine, as if she feels my stare-

She smiles.

Then flips me the bird. Both of them. Middle fingers raised like a crown of thorns.

And f--ks me-

I smile back.