Confidential

Chapter Ten

The night was a blur of light and sound, yet everything felt unnervingly sharp to Sari.

The deep, heavy bass from the floor pulsed up through Sari’s unforgiving heels, a relentless rhythm that slowly began to match the quick, stubborn beat of her heart. Elysium was exactly what Joan had promised, a dazzling monument to excess. Chandeliers of crystal glimmered like captured galaxies, bodies moved in hypnotic waves under the strobe, and laughter from the upper suites cascaded down like expensive champagne.

Sari hated it. Too loud. Too shallow. Too much.

But somewhere in this gorgeous, gilded cage was the man who’d turned her family’s life into a public disaster. And if getting justice meant stepping into his lion's den, she would walk in wearing red.

Joan leaned over the bar, scanning the crowd with the focused intensity of a predator. “You know, this is where he usually holds court,” she yelled over the music. “He’s got a suite upstairs. Biggest one in the club. Always open, always exclusive.”

Mariella, sipping something clear and lethal, gave a low hum. “Because nothing screams privacy like a glass wall and a spotlight.”

Joan grinned, teeth flashing. “Oh, darling, men like him don’t crave privacy. They demand an audience.”

Sari exhaled, eyes sweeping over the glittering, intoxicated sea of faces. She wasn’t sure what irritated her more, that she was here, or that Joan was right.

“Maybe he’s not coming tonight,” she muttered, trying to dampen the anxious energy tightening her chest.

Joan airily rolled her eyes. “Sweetheart, billionaires like Elizalde don’t miss a Saturday at their own kingdom.”

Mariella set her drink down and nudged Sari, her eyes subtly flicking up. “Look up.”

Sari followed the direction.

Across the room, above the churning lights and dancing bodies, stood the expansive balcony of the largest private suite. The view was a throne-like panorama overlooking the entire club. And leaning against the railing, drink in hand, was him.

Matthew Elizalde.

He looked nothing like the arrogant headlines or the stiff magazine covers. In person, he was simply sharper. Dangerous in an effortless, quiet way. He was the kind of man who didn't have to seek attention, the room simply offered it, like a tax.

He was dressed in a black button-down, sleeves rolled, a deliberate carelessness that only enhanced the chiseled strength of his forearms. His hair was slightly tousled, his posture lazy yet deliberate, as if absolute control was as natural to him as breathing.

And he was looking straight at her.

Sari’s breath hitched, a small, involuntary movement that tightened the fabric of her dress.

Their eyes met across the distance, hers defiant, his completely unreadable. It was a flicker of recognition without logic, a moment that stretched too long to be casual. For Sari, it was the enemy. For him, she was clearly an interruption. She could feel his gaze slowly, deliberately take in the dress, the exposed skin, the severity of her expression, a detailed, clinical assessment that felt scandalously intimate.

Mariella noticed first. “Well,” she murmured, her voice a dry rasp, “that’s one way to cut through his personal security.”

Joan grinned, her tone teasing but razor-sharp. “Oh, honey, if eyes could undress, that man just ripped the zipper clean off your dress. He has no idea who you are, but he’s already trying to figure out if you're worth the trouble.”

Sari blinked hard, forcing herself to breathe. “Don’t start.”

But Mariella’s expression had shifted, moving from amusement to cold calculation. “Actually, she’s right. This might be your only way in.”

Sari frowned. “Excuse me?”

Mariella leaned closer, her voice a low, firm command. “He noticed you. That’s leverage. Use it. If you can’t reach him through lawyers, reach him through pure, visceral interest.”

Joan raised her glass in a toast. “Cheers to that strategy.”

Sari shot them both a glare that promised retribution. “I am not seducing him.”

“No one said seducing,” Mariella said, her eyes never leaving the figure on the balcony. “We said strategic engagement. You don’t have to like the method, you just have to execute it.”

Sari opened her mouth to argue, but the words withered. Her father’s tired, pale face flashed in her mind. Her mother’s legacy. The years of sacrifice. She hated being here. But she hated losing even more.

“Fine,” she finally clipped out. “What’s the plan?”

Joan smiled, a cat with a canary cornered. “Simple. We make him look twice.”

Before Sari could protest further, Joan’s hand was on her arm, pulling her with purpose toward the dance floor. The crowd instantly swallowed them, flashing light, synthetic perfume, bodies moving to the pounding beat.

Mariella remained behind, a silent sentinel by the bar, her expression half amusement, half professional disbelief.

Joan spun Sari toward the center of the floor, laughing as the music surged. “Relax!” she shouted over the noise. “You’re not doing heart surgery. Just let the music move what you came here to sell!”

Sari rolled her eyes but allowed herself to follow the rhythm. Slowly. Awkwardly. Then, driven by a cold, angry resolve, she allowed the red dress and the heat of the crowd to take over. She wasn't dancing, she was performing.

When she looked up again, Matthew was still there, leaning against the balcony rail, his head c****d slightly, watching her like a scientist studying a beautiful, dangerous new variable.

She met his gaze again. This time, she didn't look away.

For a long moment that felt suspended in the thrumming air, neither did he. The sheer distance between them was charged, a taut wire of unspoken intent.

Joan leaned in, smirking, her breath hot near Sari's ear. “Darling, if s****l tension were currency, you just bought the entire club.”

Sari ignored her, but her pulse betrayed her, hammering a fast, unsteady rhythm in her neck.

Then Matthew turned his head, said something to the woman beside him, a model, definitely, and without taking another look down, he disappeared from the balcony.

Mariella’s voice crackled through the comm-link in Sari’s ear. “He’s moving.”

Sari’s heart skipped. “Where?”

Joan’s smirk widened, feral and victorious. “If you played that right, toward you.”