Clara Morgan lay sprawled across her silk sheets, a cucumber mask chilling her skin as Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat Major, Op. 9 flowed from her Bang & Olufsen speakers. The melody—haunting and liquid—always transported her back to her childhood cello lessons. She hadn't touched a bow since her parents' funeral eleven years ago, when the weight of grief snapped her A-string and ambition alike.
The music swirled like smoke through her dimly lit loft when a shrieking ringtone—Sebastian's custom alert for—jolted her upright. She ripped off the mask, heart drumming against her ribs.
"Mr. Hartwell." Her voice emerged as a croak.
"TaXX NightClub. VIP 1. Now." Sebastian's command sliced through the nocturne's lingering notes.
Clara glanced at the Breguet clock on her nightstand: 10:17 PM. "Sir, it's my day off—"
"Overtime pay? Two hundred grand sufficient motivation?"
The number punched her gut. One-point-four million already hung over her like a guillotine. "En route, sir."
She tugged on an oversized hoodie and skinny jeans, twisting her hair into a messy side ponytail with a scrunchie. Halfway to her Audi, she paused. Shouldn't I glam up for the TaXX club? The thought evaporated. Better if he's disgusted. Might send me home.
The VIP booth's velvet curtains parted to reveal three pairs of eyes. In the dim light, Clara's fresh-faced beauty stood out——dewy skin bare of makeup, sneakers squeaking on polished onyx, hoodie swallowing her frame. A college freshman stumbling into a den of panthers.
Sebastian, in tailored Armani, suddenly felt decades older.
"Mr. Hartwell, Mr. Han, Dr. Lorimer." She nodded, lingering by the door.
Julian Lorimer smirked. "You look wide awake, Ms. Morgan. Perfect for a drink." If only you knew Seb's been staring at your contact info for an hour.
"I don't drink much," Clara hedged.
"Just a sip." Julian winked at Sebastian. "If you get tipsy, your boss can carry you home."
Clara's cheeks burned. So everyone knows. She took the wine Alexander poured, standing rigidly.
"Sit," Sebastian ordered.
"Sir—"
"Do I need to fund your hearing aids?"
Clara collapsed onto the sofa beside him, gulping the Lafite. Tart, cold, bitter—like swallowing broken glass. Worse than Diet Coke.
"Impressive tolerance." Alexander refilled her glass, amused. Wait till she's Mrs. Hartwell—then I'll pour her champagne.
Julian noticed Sebastian's hungry stare—practically undressing Clara. "Let's play a game. Ask me anything; if I dodge, I drink. Reverse applies."
"I... don't have questions for you."
"Ouch." Julian feigned hurt. "Wounded! Am I that uninteresting?"
"Nope."
Alexander coughed into his glass. Julian slammed the table: "Fine—play with Seb!"
Clara met Sebastian's stormy gaze, shrinking. "Okay, Dr. Lorimer. Your first question."
"Have you ever had boyfriends? How many?"
"None."
"Liar!" Julian leaned in. "Drink if you're lying."
"Serious. No one's ever liked me."
Julian gaped at Sebastian, who sipped wine nonchalantly. He took her virginity? "Your turn."
Clara stalled. "Same question."
"Can't answer—I've lost count." Julian chugged his wine, confirming his playboy rep.
"Next: ever had a crush?"
Clara's mind flashed to Ethan in his blue-and-white uniform, headphones around his neck. But··· His dimples never smiled for me.
Sensing Sebastian's glare, she raised her glass. "I'll drink."
Alexander and Julian exchanged glances. She had a crush, but Seb's threatening her.
Round after round, Clara's tolerance failed. She stood unsteadily: "I need a bathroom break."
As she staggered out, Julian playfully nudged Sebastian's shoulder:
"She had a crush on someone. Not you."
Ethan? The thought of another man in Clara's past ignited a flame in his gut—one he didn't know how to extinguish.