Page 48 of Taking What's Mine

The SUV glides to a stop in front of Club Greed. This time, it’s an entirely different vibe from our previous visits. The exterior is decked out with velvet ropes, ornate lighting, and luxury cars lined up along the sidewalk. A valet wearing a sleek black suit opens my door, offering a polite bow, and I step onto the curb, acutely aware of how my heels click against the pavement.

Lincoln loops an arm around my waist—both protective and possessive—and a spark of warmth flutters in my chest. I try to ignore the way his touch makes me momentarily forget we’re here for dangerous business.

Inside, the club has been transformed. Where before it was loud neon and throbbing bass, tonight it’s a lavish gala. Chandeliers throw glittering patterns across marble floors, and servers circulate with trays of champagne flutes. Couples in formal evening wear mingle in hushed clusters, exchanging knowing smiles. My stomach does a slow flip.

A host in a tailored tuxedo meets us at the entrance to a hallway roped off with gold stanchions. “Mr. and Mrs. Zane,” he intones. “This way, please. Devereaux has asked that you be treated as honored guests.”

Lincoln’s grip on me tightens for a moment, a silent I’ve got you. I breathe out a small sigh of relief and follow the host. Dean might have thrown us into the deep end, but at least Devereaux knows we’re undercover now, which means less risk of being forced into questionable “tests.” Not that we’re completely safe, but it’s one less hurdle, right?

We pass through a set of ornate double doors that open onto a new wing of the club. It’s all opulent décor—plush carpets, gold-framed mirrors, sculpted pillars. The hum of conversation and tinkling laughter echoes through the cavernous space. There’s a discreet bar at one end, where a bartender wearing a half-mask pours glittering cocktails into slender glasses. The air smells like expensive perfume and the faintest hint of incense.

I lean closer to Lincoln, my lips near his ear. “Is it just me, or does this look like a scene from some decadent historical drama?”

He huffs a soft laugh, tension crinkling the corners of his eyes. “No, it’s definitely extra.”

The host leads us deeper into a series of rooms, each more luxurious than the last. I catch glimpses of couples conversing in hushed tones, some dancing to a string quartet in a side lounge, others sipping cocktails on velvet sofas. The entire atmosphere vibrates with a subtle undercurrent—desire, secrecy, the promise of something forbidden.

Finally, we arrive at a back room that feels more like an exclusive salon: a grand space with low lighting, luxurious drapes, and ornate couches arranged around a central dance floor. Soft music plays giving the room an air of refined indulgence. A handful of couples already populate the space, chatting, sipping champagne, leaning into each other in intimately close poses. My heart skips a beat when I realize that somewhere in this crowd is Morris Rolfe.

The host inclines his head politely. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Morris will be by shortly to greet you.” Then he vanishes into the swirl of well-dressed guests, leaving us standing on the threshold.

Lincoln’s arm remains around my waist, and I feel the subtle press of his fingertips through the fabric of my dress. “So,” he murmurs, scanning the room. “Morris is here. Somewhere.”

I swallow, trying to quell the jitters that threaten to make my voice shake. “Now what?”

He glances down at me, the flicker of a gentle smile ghosting his lips. “We do what we always do. Stay calm, blend in, see who we can talk to. Dean made sure Devereaux’s aware we’re not to be ‘tested’ again, but we can’t assume we’re off the hook. At least now we might get an introduction instead of prowling around begging for scraps of intel.”

Relief mingles with nerves. “Let’s just hope it goes smoothly.”

As we move further into the room, several pairs of eyes slide our way—some curious, some appraising. A woman in a sleek red gown passes by, offering us a flirtatious smile, and I wonder fleetingly if she’s friend or foe. Lincoln steers me gently towarda secluded corner, where a velvet settee and matching armchair create a small seating area.

He settles in beside me, our shoulders touching, and I grab a glass of champagne from a passing server. The bubbles dance along my tongue, and I force myself to sip slowly. My pulse is already racing without additional fuel.

“If Morris is as cagey as everyone says,” Lincoln murmurs, leaning in so his breath warms my ear, “he might not approach us first. We might have to make ourselves known.”

I tilt my head to meet his gaze. “Should we ask Devereaux directly?”

Lincoln gives a half-shrug. “Possibly. But let’s give it a beat. People are still arriving. If Rolfe is here, he’ll make his rounds. We can always corner Devereaux if we get desperate.”

The mention of cornering Devereaux reminds me of the tension between him and Dean. My brother may have manipulated events to get us here, but there’s no telling how Devereaux truly feels about hosting a pair of undercover infiltrators at his prized VIP party. The precariousness of our position tightens my chest.

I take another sip, scanning the room. “Who are all these people?” I murmur. “High rollers, obviously. Maybe business tycoons looking for… a different kind of networking?”

Lincoln snorts softly. “Wouldn’t surprise me.” Then he motions with his chin. “Over there?—”

Following his line of sight, I spot Vera and Trey from before, chatting with a tall man in a crisp white suit. My stomach flips. “Looks like old acquaintances are here,” I say wryly.

We share a look, uncertain whether we should engage them now or wait. But just as I’m about to suggest we mingle, Vera’s gaze flicks our way. She smiles, waves discreetly, then nudges Trey’s arm. They excuse themselves from their conversation, making a beeline for us.

I brace myself for another sultry greeting, but to my surprise, Vera merely offers a friendly grin. “You two made it! And invited this time, no less.”

Trey nods in agreement, a half-smile on his lips. “So you really are on the VIP list. You must’ve impressed somebody.”

Lincoln’s hand presses a bit more firmly against my hip. “Something like that.” He keeps his voice casual. “We heard Morris might be around tonight.”

Vera’s expression turns knowing. “He is,” she confirms. “Somewhere. You might see him once he’s done with his current business… or you might not. He’s unpredictable.”

Trey arches a brow. “We can let him know you’re here, if you’d like.”

---