The Heir No One Must Know

Chapter 4: Man in black

I felt my head spin as I tossed back another shot of tequila, the burn searing down my throat. The club lights blurred around me, a haze of colors and pulsing music, but my focus flickered toward Sam—well, wherever she had disappeared to.

The last I saw of her, she was sandwiched between two of the guards, one devouring her lips while gorilla Guy took her from behind. Bold. Even for her.

I wasn't exactly sober, but I wasn't wasted enough to miss the weirdness creeping in.

"I guess grandma here decided to change her mind and get drunk, ey?" Jace spoke from behind the counter, pouring another shot of tequila before pushing it towards me.

I couldn't help but let out a small raspy scoff. "What can I say? Clubbing is...something. I'm blaming you and Sam though."

Jace slightly shook his head, laughing, before he moved towards the other end of the counter to entertain some customers who asked for more shots of margarita.

"Excuse me."

A deep, measured voice cut through the noise, pulling my attention from Jace. I blinked up, vision slightly hazy, to find a man standing in front of me.

Tall. Broad. Impeccably dressed in a black suit, an earpiece hooked over his ear, and dark sunglasses concealing his eyes.

I stared. Then snorted.

"What the hell?" I mumbled under my breath, biting back a laugh.

Jace—who I had no idea on how he got here in a flash—glanced up at me. "Something funny?"

I gestured at the guy, barely holding in my grin. "Dude looks like he stepped right out of Men in Black."

Jace glanced towards the dude before he let out a low chuckle. "s**t, you're not wrong. What's up, Agent Smith? Lost your alien?"

The man didn't react. No smirk. No twitch of amusement. Just a blank, unshakable expression. Creepy.

"Brielle Morgan," he said, his voice cool and precise.

My smile faltered.

I blinked, tequila-drenched brain struggling to keep up. "Uh... how do you know my name?"

"My boss would like to have a word with you."

That made me pause.

Boss? What boss? Who the hell would be looking for me at a club?

I leaned against the bar, raising a brow. "Sorry, buddy, but unless your boss is the god of hangovers, I think I'll pass."

Jace smirked beside me, wiping down a glass. "Yeah, man, she's kinda busy getting trashed. Maybe try again when she's less drunk?"

The guy didn't flinch. Didn't so much as blink. "I'm afraid this isn't a request."

Something about the way he said it sent an uncomfortable shiver down my spine.

Still, I wasn't in the mood for cryptic bullshit. "And if I say no?"

A flicker of tension lined his jaw. "My boss doesn't like a no for an answer. I'm afraid I have to insist you."

For the first time all night, the alcohol fog in my head lifted just a little.

Jace must've noticed too, because his grip on the glass tightened. "Alright, pal, I think you need to back off," he said, his voice carrying an edge. "She's not going anywhere unless she wants to."

The man remained unaffected. Instead, he slipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out something small, and slid it across the bar toward me.

I frowned and looked down.

A sleek black card. No name. No company. Just a single golden symbol embossed in the center.

I didn't recognize it.

But something about it—something about him—made my skin prickle.

"Take your time, Miss Morgan," he said, voice smooth as glass. "But don't take too long."

And just like that, he turned on his heel and vanished into the crowd.

"What the hell was that?" I muttered, still staring at the black card like it might burst into flames. My fingers ran over the sleek surface, feeling the raised emblem in the center—no name, no number, just a cryptic symbol that meant absolutely nothing to me.

I glanced at Jace, who was quietly polishing a beer mug, but his eyes were still lingering in the direction the suited guy had disappeared. His jaw was tense, lips pressed into a thin line, and the casual amusement he usually carried had drained from his face.

"Creep," I scoffed, shaking my head.

Jace's gaze snapped to me, brows lifting in confusion. "What? Me?"

I rolled my eyes. "No, not you—well, sorta. The guy in the suit—the Men in Black wannabe."

Jace huffed a short laugh, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Harsh. But yeah, no kidding. That guy screamed sketchy. You know him?"

"Not a damn clue," I muttered, flipping the card between my fingers again. It felt heavier than it should have, like it carried some unseen weight.

Jace leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing. "No name, no number... just that creepy-ass symbol. What, did you just get recruited into a secret cult?"

I snorted. "If I wake up tomorrow with some Illuminati contract, I blame you."

Jace smirked, but it faded just as quickly as it appeared. "Seriously, though. You okay? He didn't try anything, right?"

I sighed, tucking the card into my purse. "No, just some cryptic nonsense about his boss wanting to see me. Like, dude, I don't even have unpaid bills—who the hell wants to see me?"

Jace tapped his fingers against the bar, his expression darkening. "Guys like him don't just show up at random clubs looking for random people. Whoever sent him, they already know who you are."

A chill slithered down my spine at his words, making me shudder. I had been trying to brush it off, but the way Jace said it—like it was some certainty—made my skin prickle with unease.

Before I could respond, a hand suddenly grabbed my arm.

"Come on, Bri, we're dancing again!"

I turned to see Sam, looking like she had just walked through a hurricane but was still grinning like she had won the lottery. Her lipstick was smudged, her hair a wild mess, and she reeked of alcohol, sweat, and bad decisions.

"Sam, I don't—"

"Nope! No whining, only dancing!" she declared before yanking me off the barstool with surprising strength for someone three drinks past her limit.

I barely had time to glance back at Jace, who just shook his head in exasperation, before Sam dragged me onto the dance floor.

The music was deafening, the bass pounding so hard it rattled my ribs. Neon lights flashed erratically, splashing the crowd in flickers of red, blue, and purple. The air was thick with the mingling scents of alcohol, sweat, and expensive cologne.

Sam threw her hands up, swaying her hips with no care in the world, completely lost at the moment. I couldn't help but laugh as she twirled in a clumsy circle, nearly stumbling into another couple.

"Come on, Bri!" she yelled over the music. "Dance your drunk ass! This is fun!"

What the hell was I doing? I came here to have fun, not to sit here overanalyzing every little thing.

I glanced down at the sleek black card still clutched between my fingers, flipping it absentmindedly. My stomach churned. I didn't know why; it's probably because I'm drunk and consumed about half a bottle of tequila—but something about that guy—his entire presence—rubbed me the wrong way. Yet, for some reason, I couldn't shake this weird curiosity gnawing at me.

I groaned before walking back to the bar with few drunk stumble and downing another shot of tequila, letting the fiery burn scorch my throat. It sent a warm buzz through my veins, loosening the tension in my shoulders. With a sharp exhale, I slammed the shot glass onto the counter, probably a little harder than necessary.

Jace, who had been wiping down a beer mug, gave me an unimpressed look. "Whoa, easy there, grandma. Those glasses cost more than your dignity after three shots."

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. "Pfft, whatever, bartender Jace."

Despite my casual response, I could still feel his gaze lingering on me, sharp and watchful. But I ignored it, my focus shifting back toward where Mr. Men in Black had disappeared.

Somewhere deep in my gut, a voice warned me to stay put. To let it go.

But, of course, I was never one to listen to common sense.

"Oi! Where the hell are you going?" Jace called after me as I hopped off the barstool.

"Out to cause some trouble, bartender Jace!" I shot back, waving him off as I pushed through the sea of sweaty bodies.

The club was packed, a mess of flashing lights, heavy bass, and strangers pressing in from all sides. I maneuvered through the throng, dodging stumbling drunks and wayward hands, my heart pounding in sync with the music. The deeper I went, the louder the pulse of the speakers became, shaking my bones with each thump.

Then, finally, I spotted him—or rather, them.

Turns out Will Smith had a twin.

Two identical men in black suits stood rigidly in front of an exclusive VIP booth, their faces completely blank, their eyes hidden behind sleek sunglasses. They looked like they had been carved from stone, unmoving, unbothered by the surrounding chaos

.

The sight alone sent an unsettling chill down my spine.

I swallowed hard.

What the hell was I getting myself into?

"Ey, Will Smith!" I slurred, pointing a wobbly finger at the suited man in front of me. My words tumbled out in a drunken mess, punctuated by an unflattering hiccup.

The guy barely reacted, but his twin—the one standing beside him—raised a single brow at me, his lips pressing into a thin, unimpressed line.

I blinked up at them, swaying slightly before regaining my footing. A slow heat crept up my neck as I realized just how ridiculous I must've looked—flushed, tipsy, and calling a literal bodyguard Will Smith like a damn i***t.

But I was already in too deep. Might as well commit.

With as much drunken confidence as I could muster, I straightened my posture, attempting to look serious (which, in hindsight, probably wasn't very convincing). "Take me to your master," I declared, nodding like I'd just delivered the most important request of my life.

Oh wow. I sounded like an alien from Planet Mars.

There was a beat of silence. Then, the two suited men exchanged a glance—one of those silent conversations that only people who had worked together for years could have.

I wasn't sure what the verdict was, but from the slight twitch of Not-Will-Smith's jaw, I was guessing it wasn't in my favor.

The suited men exchanged another glance before stepping aside and pulling back the thick velvet curtain.

I blinked, my drunken haze doing little to lessen the impact of the sight before me.

Seated like a king in the dimly lit private booth was a man who looked like he had been sculpted by the gods themselves. His black dress shirt was undone just enough to tease a glimpse of toned muscles and smooth, sun-kissed skin. A thin silver chain rested against his collarbone, catching the low lights of the club.

His presence was overwhelming—commanding, yet effortless. He exuded the kind of confidence that didn’t need to be announced, the kind that made people look twice without even realizing why.

Dark, piercing eyes lifted lazily to meet mine, amusement flickering in them like a slow-burning flame. He leaned back, draping an arm over the leather seat, completely at ease despite my ungraceful entrance.

I swallowed, suddenly aware of how small I felt under his gaze.

"Well," he murmured, his voice deep and smooth, laced with curiosity. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

For the moment, I just let out a hiccup.