Jaxon didn’t sleep. By dawn, his penthouse was still lit, whiskey glass untouched on the table. His phone kept vibrating, Dante’s damage reports, security alerts, whispers from the club about staff questioning his leadership. But one message froze him more than the rest.
A photo.
Raven, slipping out of the building at midnight. The timestamp matched the exact window he’d asked her not to leave, and the sender? Zane. No words. No threats. Just proof.
The glass cracked in his fist.
By afternoon, Club Eden was a storm. The article Raven had written, or rather, the one Zane had leaked, had everyone on edge. It didn’t name Jaxon outright, but the descriptions were too precise to be coincidence. Politicians were pulling their funding, inspectors were crawling all over the place, and staff we
