Club Zenith wasn't just a nightclub. It was a temple.
A place where the powerful came to sin with style. Where mirrors lined the ceiling, and every surface reflected something forbidden. The music didn't thump, it seduced, pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the skin. Girls danced on elevated platforms like gods had carved them from smoke. Men in tailored suits whispered lies into champagne flutes.
And above them all, in a glass-walled VIP tower overlooking the dancefloor like a throne, sat Philip Shepherd.
Mara saw him the moment she stepped through the gilded entrance.
Her dress was black velvet, clinging like it had been sewn straight onto her body. The slit kissed the top of her thigh, and her heels were sharp enough to pierce the skin. Her hair was swept up, her neck bare, exposing every inch of her spine like a challenge.
She was no longer hiding.
Rafael flanked her in a custom midnight-blue suit, his demeanor unreadable. Cool. Dangerous. The perfect shadow to her fire.
