Chapter 3: No Going Back.
997 Words
The Crimson Room pulses like an open wound in the heart of Blood Alley. I check my reflection one last time in my car's mirror – blood-red lipstick, blonde hair falling in waves past my shoulders, black dress that shows just enough to be dangerous. The woman staring back at me looks nothing like the grieving wife I was yesterday.
Good. That woman was weak. This one's out for blood.
Two burly men flank the club's entrance, their shoulders stretching their black suits. I approach with practiced confidence, the click of my heels a countdown to devastation. They eye me with equal parts suspicion and appreciation.
"Members only," the larger one grunts.
I let my lips curve into the smile I've practiced – equal parts invitation and threat. "Tell Dominic that Martins Rodriguez's wife is here to see him."
Their reaction is instant. The larger one's hand twitches toward his jacket while the other speaks rapidly into an earpiece. I wait, heart thundering against my ribs but keeping my expression coolly amused.
"Wait here," the first guard orders, then disappears inside.
Music bleeds through the heavy doors – something deep and primal that matches my heartbeat. I resist the urge to fidget under the remaining guard's stare. After what feels like eternity, the door opens.
"Mr. Rodriguez will see you," the guard says, gesturing me inside.
The club's interior is a study in calculated excess. Blood-red walls stretch up into darkness, while crystal chandeliers cast wicked shadows across the dance floor. Beautiful people move like smoke through the space, but I notice how they all orient themselves toward the VIP section like flowers following the sun.
Or prey watching a predator.
"This way," my escort guides me through the crowd. Heads turn as we pass, conversations dying mid-sentence. I feel the weight of countless eyes, all wondering the same thing: who dares walk so boldly into the devil's den?
The VIP section rises above the main floor like a dark throne. And there, lounging in a leather booth like a king holding court, is Dominic Rodriguez.
The photos I found online didn't do him justice. Where Martins is all golden boy charm, Dominic is midnight and danger. Black hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that could cut diamonds. A perfectly tailored black suit clings to his broad shoulders, and a silver ring glints on each hand. He watches me approach with the lazy interest of a panther deciding whether to pounce.
"Well," his voice is smoke and whiskey, "this is certainly unexpected." He gestures to the space across from him. "Please, sit. I'm curious what brings my dear brother's wife to my humble establishment."
I slide into the booth, aware of how the dress rides up my thighs. His eyes track the movement before returning to my face. "Ex-wife, actually. As of today."
"Is that so?" He signals, and a waitress appears with two glasses of amber liquid. "And what prompted this sudden change in status?"
"He got my best friend pregnant." I take a sip of what turns out to be obscenely expensive bourbon. "Fourteen months of f*****g her behind my back while I tried to give him a family."
Something dangerous flashes in Dominic's eyes. "Martins always did excel at betrayal."
"Sounds like you're speaking from experience."
"Perhaps." He leans forward, and the air between us charges with electricity. "But I doubt you came all this way to discuss my family drama. So tell me, Mrs. Rodriguez—"
"Shirley," I interrupt. "I think we can skip the formalities, considering I'm here to make a deal with the devil."
A smile curves his lips – sharp enough to draw blood. "And what makes you think I'm interested in your deal?"
I meet his gaze steadily. "Because you hate him as much as I do. Maybe more. The question is, are you willing to help me destroy him?"
"Destroy him?" Dominic swirls his drink, studying me over the rim. "That's quite a leap from divorce proceedings. Most wronged wives just take the bastard for everything he's worth."
"I don't want his money." The bourbon burns in my chest, feeding the fire of my rage. "I want him to lose everything. His reputation, his safety, his precious new family. I want him to feel as helpless as I did, standing in our bedroom reading that text."
"And what do I get out of this arrangement?"
I lean forward, letting him catch the scent of my perfume. "The one thing you've wanted for ten years – your brother's suffering."
Dominic sets his glass down with deliberate care. His eyes roam my face, searching for weakness. I force myself to hold his gaze even as every instinct screams to run.
"You're either very brave," he says finally, "or very foolish."
"I'm very angry," I correct him. "And from what I've heard, that's something you understand well."
He laughs then – a sound like broken glass that sends shivers down my spine. "Oh, I like you." He reaches across the table, brushing a finger along my jaw. "But are you sure you want to play this game, little fox? Once you start down this path, there's no turning back."
I catch his wrist, pressing my fingertips against his pulse. "I burned my map home when I walked through your door."
For a long moment, we stay frozen like that – his hand at my jaw, my fingers on his wrist, the music pulsing around us like a heartbeat. Then his smile widens into something wicked.
"Well then," he purrs, "let's discuss how to make my brother bleed."
I release his wrist and sit back, taking another sip of bourbon. Through the glass walls of the VIP section, I can see the dancers below, writhing like souls in purgatory. Somewhere in Oakbrook Heights, Martins is probably lying in Victoria's bed, thinking he's won.
He has no idea what's coming.
"So," Dominic draws my attention back to him, "where shall we begin?”
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