Damien Leclair was not the kind of man who frequented clubs. He preferred crisp suits over blaring bass, clinking glasses over sweaty dance floors, and private lounges over neon-lit mayhem. So when his secretary, Lucien, casually mentioned that tonight's meeting with a potential investor was set in Havoc—one of the noisiest, most scandalous clubs in the city—he had nearly lost it.
"What kind of idiot thinks a club is a professional place for business?" Damien growled, shoving the door of the sleek black car harder than necessary as he stepped out.
Lucien flinched beside him but kept his usual calm. "Sir, he insisted. Apparently, he owns a major share here and rarely meets outside."
"I don't care if he owns the damn moon. If this ends in wasted time, it's on you."
Damien's mood was coiled like a spring, and his usual green-flag demeanor was buried under layers of corporate frustration and the looming weight of wasted hours. The pulsing music from the club hit his nerves like static. Crowds spilled out of the entrance, laughter and drunken shouting bouncing off the pavement.
Inside, the lights were low and the air thick with perfume, alcohol, and unspoken promises. People moved like liquid, bodies swaying in sync with the beat. He hated it. This wasn't power. It was chaos, and Damien lived on control.
He moved toward the reserved VIP lounge, jaw locked. He didn't bother with pleasantries or scanning faces—until someone caught his peripheral.
A flicker.
A shimmer.
A figure in red.
He turned instinctively—and stopped.
There she was.
Celeste Moreau.
A stark contrast to the noise around her. Her dress hugged her like it was made for her alone, bold yet elegant, the slit teasing power with every step. Hair pinned up, eyes alive—intense, observant. She wasn't dancing. She wasn't trying. She just existed, and yet she stole every bit of air in the room.
His bad mood dissolved. Just like that.
She looked… untouchable.
Untamed.
And for some ridiculous reason, that struck something primal in him. The way she carried herself, chin high, confidence like perfume—it wasn't arrogance. It was earned.
Lucien noticed the shift, nudging slightly. "That's her, isn't it?"
Damien didn't answer. He didn't have to.
He couldn't hear the music anymore. Couldn't think past the chaos in his chest.
It wasn't attraction. It wasn't curiosity.
It was recognition.
Something was about to begin.
And he was already too deep.
The music reverberated in Celeste's chest, but tonight, it didn't feel like a nuisance. The neon lights, the chatter, the energy—it was all just a distraction. A welcome distraction from everything that had been eating away at her for weeks. Months, really. Everything was on her shoulders now—her family, her job, her goals. The weight was unbearable.
Maya had tried to tell her to enjoy herself, to let go, to not worry about anything. But Celeste couldn't just let go. Her mind was always working, calculating, planning. Yet tonight, as she sat at the edge of the VIP booth, listening to the sound of laughter swirling around her, she just wanted to stop thinking.
Her best friend, Maya, sat beside her, a mischievous glint in her eye. "You're not going to sit here all night sulking, are you?"
Celeste chuckled dryly, her fingers tracing the rim of the glass in front of her. The gin sparkled in the dim light, clear and almost taunting. It was the only thing keeping her grounded right now.
"I'm not sulking. Just… trying to relax."
Maya raised an eyebrow. "Relax? You've been holding it together for months now, Celeste. Let it go. For tonight. No one's watching. Just… enjoy yourself for once."
Celeste took a sip from her glass, the alcohol burning down her throat, quickly followed by the cool, refreshing aftertaste. The glass was empty before she realized it, and another appeared in its place.
She didn't even remember ordering it. But she didn't care.
"You've worked hard enough, you deserve this," Maya insisted, nudging her. "One drink won't hurt."
The world around her had started to blur, the music becoming a low hum in the background. The chatter of other patrons faded into the background, and for the first time in a long while, Celeste felt her mind quieting. But not in the way she hoped. It wasn't peace. It was numbness. The kind of numbness that came from the bottom of a glass.
By the time the third drink arrived, the world seemed to spin in slow motion. The weight on her chest seemed lighter, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to breathe. To forget. To let the alcohol erase the thoughts that had plagued her all week—the constant anxiety, the growing tension at home with her family, the ever-present burden of proving she was more than just the girl from a broken home.
Maya, ever the optimist, was busy laughing at something a group of guys at the bar had said. Celeste's gaze drifted across the room again, the spinning lights catching her attention. It was all a haze now, the club blending into one big blur of colors. She didn't care. She didn't care about anything. She just wanted to be lost. To be free from the constant pressure.
"Another round?" Maya asked, her voice almost muffled by the noise.
Celeste didn't answer, just nodded, and Maya left to order more drinks.
It was only then that she noticed Damien again. He was standing at the bar, talking to a man who looked like he was trying a little too hard to seem important. Celeste wasn't sure why she even noticed him at all. Maybe it was the way he stood—completely at ease with himself, his posture relaxed yet powerful. Or maybe it was the sharp contrast between him and the chaos around him.
She shouldn't have been looking at him, but she couldn't stop. She'd seen him earlier in the night, and the sight of him had hit her with a strange rush of something—curiosity, maybe. She couldn't put her finger on it, but there was something about him that made her feel unsettled.
Not to mention, the way his gaze had seemed to linger on her earlier…
She quickly snapped her eyes away, trying to refocus on the conversation Maya was having with someone else at the table. But no matter how hard she tried, her thoughts kept drifting back to him. Damien Leclair. The CEO of Blackridge Global. The man who had taken a brief interest in her at work.
No. She wasn't going to think about him. She wasn't going to let him distract her.
But the alcohol was working its magic. Her thoughts were fuzzy, but the anxiety had melted away, leaving her feeling lighter than she had in days.
"Here you go," Maya said, sitting back down with another round of shots.
Celeste's vision blurred as she looked at the glass. Her hand reached out to grab it, and she knocked it back in one go. The burn of the alcohol was sharp, but it was also soothing in a way.
She wasn't sure how much time passed. It could have been minutes, hours, or days. But the next thing she knew, she was laughing. Laughing for no reason at all, her head spinning with the strange, giddy feeling that came from being just a little too drunk.
She felt light. Like she was floating above it all. She didn't care about her problems anymore. She didn't care about her family's expectations, the weight of her mother's disappointment, or the crushing pressure to succeed. She didn't care about anything.
And that, in itself, felt like freedom.
As the night wore on, the laughter and music started to fade into the background. Celeste wasn't sure how many drinks she'd had, but she was beyond the point of caring. Maya was still chatting away, but Celeste couldn't focus on what she was saying anymore. She was lost in her own world now, lost in the haze of alcohol and confusion.
That was, until she felt a hand on her shoulder.
Her body tensed instinctively, and she turned to find the face of the man she had been trying to ignore all night.
Damien Leclair.
He stood there, his presence commanding the space around him, his face a perfect mask of calm. His eyes locked with hers, and for a brief moment, Celeste felt the air around her still.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, his voice low and smooth, cutting through the noise of the club.
Celeste blinked, not entirely sure if she was hearing him correctly. Was she imagining it? Was he really standing there, talking to her?
"Just having fun," she slurred, trying to sound confident but failing miserably.
Damien's gaze softened, though it was hard to read. Was it concern? Annoyance? It was hard to tell with him.
"You're not acting like yourself," he said, his voice firm but not unkind.
"I'm exactly like myself," Celeste shot back, feeling an odd sense of defiance bubbling up inside her.
She wasn't sure what she was trying to prove, but it felt like something she needed to say.
Damien's eyes narrowed slightly, and before she could say anything else, he took a step closer. The air between them felt thick now, the tension crackling like static electricity. He wasn't touching her, not physically, but he was so close. Too close.
For a moment, Celeste forgot about everything—the club, the drinks, her friends—everything except him.
"You need to be careful," Damien said, his voice still low but commanding. "You're not invincible. Don't drink away your future."
Celeste scoffed, a mix of irritation and embarrassment flooding her. Who was he to tell her what to do?
"I don't need your advice," she muttered, standing up.
Damien watched her as she stumbled slightly, the alcohol affecting her more than she realized. His expression didn't change, but his eyes softened ever so slightly.
"Maybe not," he said, before turning away, his attention now back on the conversation with his colleague.
Celeste stood there for a long moment, staring at his retreating back. She felt a pang of something she couldn't name, a mixture of frustration, longing, and… confusion.
What the hell was wrong with her?
She quickly grabbed her purse and turned to Maya. "Let's go," she said, trying to sound more sober than she felt.
Maya shot her a glance but didn't question her. "Alright, let's get out of here."
And just like that, Celeste found herself back in the chaos of the club. But this time, she wasn't trying to drown her feelings. She was just trying to leave them behind.
But she didn't leave.
Something in her snapped. A quiet rebellion sparked deep in her chest, pushing past the alcohol haze and Damien's condescending tone. Be careful? Don't drink away your future? Who was he to preach like he knew her life? Like he understood her struggles?
Celeste clenched her fists at her sides, blinking through the pulse of the strobe lights. Maya called her name, but Celeste didn't answer. Instead, she spun around and stalked toward the dance floor, heels clicking like gunfire against the tiles.
If she was going to fall apart, it wasn't going to be quietly.
The beat of the music thundered in her chest as she stepped into the crowd. Bodies pressed close, moving in rhythm, drunk on sound and light. But when Celeste found her space—center of the floor, directly under the moving lights—she exhaled and let everything go.
Her hips moved first, slowly, deliberately. Then her arms, slicing through the air with a sensual fluidity that turned more than a few heads. The bass vibrated through her skin, and for the first time all night, she wasn't thinking. She was feeling.
And god, she felt alive.
Her body remembered the rhythm like muscle memory, every sway of her waist and flick of her wrist refined from years of dancing alone in her bedroom, from college parties where she stole attention without even trying. She hadn't danced like this in forever—unapologetic, confident, unstoppable.
Tonight, she didn't have to be the responsible one. She didn't have to be the good daughter, the composed employee, the perfect version of herself people expected.
Tonight, she could be herself.
She spun, hair flying, sweat glistening on her collarbones as the music hit a high. The crowd around her moved, but she owned the space. She didn't even notice the way people were stepping aside, giving her room. Didn't notice how eyes lingered longer, how whispers passed between onlookers.
Especially not the eyes she should've ignored.