Chapter 11 - Nick.
849 Words
The music vibrates through my chest—not loud enough to tire the ears, but strong enough to remind everyone that tonight is a celebration.
My new club shines under the lights. Crystal chandeliers glitter above, the marble staircases reflect the silhouettes of the guests, and glasses are constantly being filled with champagne.
I sit in the corner of the VIP area, the place where everyone knows no one approaches without permission.
And yet, the women come toward me like magnets.
Long legs. Red-painted smiles. Eyes measuring me.
I let them approach.
Some of them I touch briefly at the waist. Others lean closer, whispering their names into my ear.
Flirting is a game, and tonight I'm the host—the man everyone wants to know.
Beside me, Alan drinks quietly, wearing that wolf-like look he always has. Every time a woman leans a little too close to me, he smirks sideways, knowing perfectly well that I'm enjoying it.
And I am.
But it's not just the women.
Some of Los Angeles's biggest businessmen approach with firm handshakes. Politicians offer their congratulations for my "new chapter," though I know the only thing running through their minds is what they might gain from me.
Nothing unusual.
I play the same game back—short conversations, a firm handshake, a smile that reveals nothing.
Time passes and I sink deeper into the atmosphere I've created.
The club is full. Every face walking through that door is a new connection, a new opportunity.
Then, in the middle of flashing cameras and rising music, the door opens again.
I don't know why my gaze drifts there.
But it does.
Two figures walk in.
Paul Anderson, dressed like he's attending a wedding, his face tight with excitement and nerves.
And beside him...her!
My eyes drop instantly, instinctively.
Her legs first.
Long, perfectly shaped, ending in Louboutin heels that gleam beneath the lights.
Then my gaze slowly travels upward.
The white dress wraps around her body like a second skin, leaving her back exposed and emphasizing her neckline.
A neckline that could make every man in this room lose his train of thought.
The laughter around me fades.
For a moment, the entire club seems to dim until only she remains.
Alan says something beside me. Someone pats my shoulder in greeting.
I don't respond.
My eyes are fixed on her.
I don't know who she is.
I don't know why she came with Anderson.
But I know one thing.
Tonight, in the club that belongs to me, she just captured my attention.
And that doesn't happen often.
The drink in front of me sits almost untouched.
I'm no longer interested in it.
The only thing filling my mind is the image of the woman who just walked in.
Her body inside that white dress is a challenge by itself, and the way she walks beside Anderson—slow, confident steps, as if she knows every pair of eyes belongs to her.
It doesn't take long for the first thought to form in my mind.
I want her in my bed.
I want to see if that cold, distant look of hers breaks when she's beneath me.
If that elegant mask she wears can melt into cries.
My bodyguards react immediately when they approach.
Two steps before Anderson reaches our corner, they move forward, forming a wall in front of them.
The kid pauses, surprised.
Before he can speak, I raise my hand.
A simple gesture is enough.
The guards step aside.
Anderson walks toward me with that awkward puppy energy of someone desperate to prove himself.
His face lights up the moment he sees me, as if my presence is the best thing that's happened to him.
Paul extends his hand.
"It's an honor to see again you, Mr. Martinez."
His voice trembles with excitement.
He squeezes my hand firmly, trying to appear confident, but I know he's shaking inside.
Beside him stands the woman in the white dress.
She doesn't rush to offer her hand.
She lets Anderson do all the talking while she simply looks at me.
As if she's weighing me.
As if she's deciding whether I'm worth ruining her manicure for.
Paul turns toward her.
"Let me introduce you to Irina," he says proudly, as if presenting his most valuable treasure.
Irina.
The name fits her perfectly. Smooth. Cold.
She finally extends her hand.
Slowly.
With a movement that drips with confidence.
Her fingers are slender. Her palm warm.
I hold her hand a second longer than necessary.
My eyes lock onto hers.
Snobbish.
That's the first word that crosses my mind.
Beautiful, yes.
Impressive—more than that.
But one of those creatures who believe the world revolves around them.
I see it in the way she holds her head. In the cold smile that never reaches her eyes.
That's fine.
I like snobbish women.
They're the best ones to break.
To make them beg.
Alan stands beside me, silent, with that crooked smile of his.
He knows exactly what I'm thinking.
We don't need to say a word.
- Writer
