CHAPTER 3
Elara's Pov
The door clicked shut behind me, and the sound echoed louder than it should have in the stillness of my apartment. My keys slipped from my fingers into the ceramic bowl by the entryway.
I didn't bother with the lights. My heels were the next to go, one kicked off lazily, the other more forcefully, clattering somewhere out of reach. I barely managed to unzip my dress before falling onto my bed, face first, limbs heavy and ungraceful. The red fabric clung to my skin, slightly damp from the club's heat and my own nervous energy, but I didn't care enough to peel it off yet.
I stared at nothing, my cheek pressed against the cool pillow.
What the hell was that?
I had gone there for one reason. One. To find the man who broke my sister. I waited at the bar for far too long, almost losing hope of catching a glimpse of him. Maybe I was stupid to think he would appear out of thin air,
But I didn't expect him to literally do just that.
And I certainly didn't expect him to flirt with me like that. So casually. So smoothly. As if women like me, strangers in red dresses with half-broken smiles, were just another part of his nightly routine.
A bitter laugh escaped me.
So he was a womanizer. No wonder my sister had fallen. His stupid charm, his careful smirks, that voice of his — deep and maddeningly calm — it was all a script he'd rehearsed a hundred times. Probably more.
And yet...
My heart had picked up its pace the second he stood behind me. My body knew before my brain did. There had been no introduction, no warning — just a shift in the air. Like gravity bent differently when he was near.
I groaned and rolled onto my back, flinging an arm over my eyes.
No. Stop it, Elara.
It meant nothing. Just nerves. Adrenaline from putting myself out there like that. It had nothing to do with him or that ridiculously tailored navy suit or the way his jaw clenched when he smirked like he knew too many secrets and none of them were good.
God, he was handsome.
I hated that I noticed.
But how could I not? His eyes had pierced through the dim light like searchlights. His voice had curled around me, too calm for the chaos it caused in my chest. And then — when our eyes met — it was like the club disappeared for a heartbeat. Just gone. Like we were suspended in something silent and strange.
Anyone would've fallen for him.
Anyone.
Even me, maybe... if I didn't know who he really was. If I hadn't seen the aftermath of what he'd done to my sister. If I hadn't picked up the pieces she'd left behind.
But I did know.
That's what mattered.
He wasn't charming. He wasn't mysterious. He was a liar in a good suit, a man who played with hearts like they were poker chips. Just another smooth-talker used to getting what he wanted.
So why did I keep replaying the way he looked at me? Like he wasn't seeing just another girl at a bar. Like he was seeing me.
Ugh. No.
I forced myself to sit up, rubbing my hands down my face, trying to exorcise the feel of his gaze. My dress clung to me, and I finally tugged it over my head and tossed it across the room. I stood in my slip, feeling exposed even in the safety of my own room.
Maybe I shouldn't have worn red. Maybe I shouldn't have gone at all.
But it was too late now.
I flopped back onto the bed with a sigh that carried too much weight for one night. I was supposed to be in control. I was supposed to not let him inch under my skin with a few words and a look I couldn't forget.
I'd underestimated him. That much was clear.
But he'd underestimated me, too.
He didn't know who I was or why I was there. He didn't know the fire I carried inside me, the rage wrapped in silk and lip gloss. He didn't know I wasn't just another woman to warm his bed for the night.
No, I was something different.
And soon enough, he would learn exactly who he was dealing with.
The hot shower did little to wash away the electricity still humming beneath my skin.
I stood under the stream longer than I needed to, hoping the water would scrub away the memory of his voice, the scent of his cologne, the heat of his stare. But he wasn't so easily rinsed off. His presence clung to me like steam on a mirror.
Wrapped in a towel, I padded barefoot into my bedroom, my damp hair leaving trails on my shoulders. I threw on an oversized tee and pulled my laptop from the nightstand drawer. I wasn't expecting much — maybe a name, a LinkedIn profile, or an Instagram handle.
But that comment kept replaying in my head.
"Put it on the house."
He hadn't said it like a man offering to be generous. He said it like he owned the place. Like his word was law, and the bartender knew better than to question it.
I sat cross-legged on the bed, flipping the laptop open and typing quickly.
Mystic Heaven club owner.
Enter.
It took a few seconds for the page to load, and when it did, my breath hitched.
Gabriel Anderson — the name appeared in bold across a polished news feature.
CEO of Anderson Holdings. Founder and owner of Mystic Heaven, The Eden Chain, and several luxury ventures across Europe and Asia. A self-made billionaire before thirty-five. Known for his ruthlessness in business… and his notoriety in high-society circles. Frequently spotted with models, actresses, and heiresses alike. A tabloid favorite — often referred to as the city's most elusive bachelor and unapologetic womanizer.
I blinked.
Then blinked again.
My jaw actually dropped.
I wasn't expecting this.
A CEO? A billionaire? Gabriel Anderson?
I scrolled through the article, one hand still clutching the edge of my towel as if it could anchor me.
There were photos too — Gabriel in tailored suits, stepping out of luxury cars, laughing at rooftop galas with women draped on his arm like expensive accessories. That same face that had looked at me like I was some kind of puzzle he wanted to solve.
Holy. Shit.
I slammed the laptop shut and pressed the heel of my palm to my forehead.
What the hell did I just get myself into?
I had planned to mess with some club owner — a rich guy, sure, maybe even arrogant — but not this. Not billionaire, Forbes-featured, ruthless-playboy Gabriel Anderson.
How did my sister even get close to someone like this?
Did she know?
Did she know who he really was when she fell for him?
Or had he kept it from her — just another secret in his arsenal of seductive lies?
My stomach twisted.
Everything was more complicated now. This was bigger. Much, much bigger.
And I couldn't help the small, traitorous whisper in my head as I remembered the way he'd looked at me.
What would he do if he found out why I was really there?
I swallowed hard, still staring at the closed laptop like it had personally betrayed me.
Goddammit.
This just got a whole lot messier.
And somewhere deep inside me, underneath the panic and disbelief, a new feeling curled up like smoke.
Curiosity.
What the hell was wrong with me?