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Clinton Black had no reason to be at Velvet tonight. But sometimes, he liked watching his empire breathe.
This club - this city - was his.
And yet the moment he saw her, nothing else existed.
The girl at the bar.
Red dress. Full mouth. Eyes rimmed in shadow and defiance.
She didn't look like the other girls who came here. She looked wounded. And he had a weakness for beautiful things that bled quietly.
"Who is she?" he asked Marco.
"No clue," Marco said, checking the feed from security. "Name's Julian. ID checks out. Born and raised in the Bronx. Lives in Brooklyn now. No known ties. College student - Columbia."
Clinton hummed.
"Send her a drink."
Julian frowned at the second cocktail placed before her.
"From the man in the VIP suite," the bartender said.
She turned - and caught him watching her still.
He raised his glass.
She should have ignored it. But something about the man - the power he wore like silk - made her pulse thrum in places it had no business waking up.
So she raised her glass back.
And drank.
Julian didn't notice him until he sat beside her.
He didn't speak at first.
He didn't have to.
The space changed when he entered it. His presence wrapped around her like smoke. Expensive cologne, power, and danger.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice like gravel.
She turned, eyes glassy.
"Neither should you."
He smirked. "You don't even know who I am."
She blinked slowly. "Do I look like I care?"
That amused him more than it should have.
"Fair enough. What's your name?"
She hesitated.
Then, "Julian."
He liked the sound of it in his mouth.
"You came to the velvet to forget something," he said.
"No," she whispered. "I came to forget someone."
One Hour Later
She passed out in his car.
He didn't touch her.
Didn't ask her name again.
But he took her home.
To his penthouse.
To safety.
And when she woke up, with a headache and confusion and soft sheets that weren't hers, Clinton Black was standing by the window-
Drinking coffee. Watching her.
And planning everything.