Zane Williamson was no stranger to being noticed. He was used to commanding every room, from boardrooms to fundraisers to political galas.
Here, in the murky haze of pink neon and perfume, he preferred anonymity. The "Pink Paradise" was a detour, an impulse decision on a night he should've spent reviewing contracts for the European expansion of Williamson Corp.
Instead, he was here. Nursing a glass of scotch in a lounge that smelled faintly of sweat, alcohol, and ambition.
He didn't know what he was looking for until he saw her.
At first, it was just a flicker. A movement on the periphery of his vision, another girl on a pole, another night of curated seduction. But when she stepped fully into the spotlight, Zane's mind went blank.
She wasn't trying to be sexy. She simply was.
Her body flowed like smoke, flexed like steel. There was nothing hesitant or unsure in her form. She moved with the elegance of a gymnast and the composure of a queen. She didn't sell her act, she invited you to witness it and dared you to look away.
He didn't. He couldn't.
Zane leaned back in the high-backed leather seat and studied her like a puzzle. He'd seen thousands of beautiful women in his life. Models. Actresses. Heiresses groomed for the spotlight. But none of them made his pulse tick upward the way this one did.
This dancer, this woman, moved like she had nothing to prove but everything to hide. She was magnetic. Controlled. Lethal, in a way. And yet… vulnerable. Not in a way most men would spot.
It was in the way she didn't smile too long. In how her gaze swept the room but never lingered on any one person, until it did.
Until it landed on him.
Their eyes met, and Zane's breath caught.
Only for a second, maybe less. But it was enough. She saw him. Not his money. Not the tailored suit or the expensive watch. Him.
Surprisingly, she didn't look away. She met his gaze like she was meeting a challenge. And it was the hottest thing he had seen in long time.
"Private room?" the bouncer asked at his shoulder, tone respectful but clipped.
Zane didn't speak right away. His gaze was still fixed on her, on the rotation of her hips, the flawless split down the pole, the slow, deliberate roll back to standing.
"I want all of them," he said finally.
The bouncer blinked. "All the girls?"
"No. All the dances. From her." He sipped his scotch. "Taryn."
The man hesitated. "That's gonna cost a lot of money. She's one of our best."
"I didn't ask the price." Zane pulled a money clip from his jacket. Crisp hundreds slid into the bouncer's palm like leaves in the wind. "Tell her to take her time."
The bouncer nodded and disappeared.
Zane returned his focus to the stage. Taryn had just finished her routine, landing like a ballerina who'd been forged in fire instead of tutus and applause. The crowd erupted. But she didn't milk it. She gave one last glance toward the back, the dressing room, headed that direction.
Then she came back out and walked toward him, towards the VIP section, then vanished behind the curtain. Was she waiting for him?
He stayed seated long after the lights shifted and another girl took her place.
His mind was no longer on real estate projections or investor calls. It wasn't on his carefully engineered empire or the headlines waiting for him in tomorrow's papers.
It was on her. Who was she? What was she doing in this place? And why, when Zane had built a life around never needing anything, did he suddenly want to know everything about a woman who hadn't said a single word to him?
Zane wasn't a romantic. Not since his mother died and his father remarried a woman who smiled too wide and hugged too hard while quietly bleeding their family dry. He learned early that love, like everything else, had terms and conditions, and that vulnerability was a debt that always came due.
So he shut that part of himself down. Replaced affection with ambition. Replaced desire with discipline.
And yet, here he was.
Sitting in a dimly lit club, staring at an empty stage, imagining what it might be like to touch someone without needing to own them. He didn't like that thought. It was… dangerous.
The waitress came by, trying to flirt. Her hand lingered a second too long on his shoulder. Zane offered her a polite nod, declined the second drink, and sent her on her way. He had no interest in anyone else tonight.
He checked his watch. Eight minutes since her last routine. She'd come soon. Unless she refused. That possibility made his mouth tighten.
He wasn't used to being told no.
But for some reason, he hoped she did. He hoped she pushed back. That she tested his boundaries instead of rushing to impress him. He wasn't looking for compliance. He was looking for something real.
And something told him Taryn didn't play by anyone's rules.
He'd done some research since arriving. Taryn had worked at Pink Paradise for three years. No boyfriend. No known entanglements. She came in early. Stayed late. Never got sloppy. Never got involved in the backstage drama the other girls thrived on. And she rarely took private clients.
That was what intrigued him most.
Zane understood people. He read them like spreadsheets. Weaknesses, strengths, leverage points. But Taryn? She was a locked vault. Elegant. Wounded. Angry beneath the surface, maybe. But not broken.
And that made her dangerous, because she reminded him of a part of himself he hadn't touched in years.
He almost didn't see the man at the bar watching her. Watching them. Charles Collins was good at blending in. Quiet. Average. Forgettable.
But Zane's instincts didn't forget faces. And something about the energy in the room shifted again, colder than before. Zane didn't even notice Charles as a threat. Not yet. Not consciously.
But some part of him—some primal instinct honed in boardrooms and backroom deals, whispered that the night had more layers than even he was prepared for.
He checked his watch again. Ten minutes had passed. Still no Taryn.
Still no answer. Still no control.
Zane finished his drink, stood up, and straightened his jacket. If she didn't come to him, he'd find her.