Chapter 1 Captivated
BASTIAN'S POV
The ice in my glass is the only thing in this place with any backbone.
I watch a bead of condensation trail down the crystal while the bass from the dance floor vibrates through the soles of my Tom Fords. Orphic is exactly what I expected when I signed the acquisition papers.... expensive, loud, and populated by people who mistake proximity to power for the possession of it.
The prelaunch tasting for Umbra is over and the industry players have already left. The whiskey is perfect, a dark liquid that hits the back of the throat with a calculated burn. By next quarter, once it’s distributed across the premium global hospitality tiers from Tokyo to Zurich, Eclipse Distilling Co. will once again sit atop the Global Spirits Index as the undisputed architect of high-end consumption.
I’ve won....Again.
I take another sip, the amber liquid coating my tongue. I should leave. My driver is circling the block, and the silence of my penthouse is waiting. But that’s the problem. The silence has never been kind to me, it’s a vacuum that fills with the shadows of things I’ve spent years outrunning. Now that the launch logistics are finalized, there is no more data to crunch, no more fires to extinguish.
I am left with myself, and I find the company lacking.
A flash of purple interrupts my line of sight.
"Another round of the liquid gold, or are we moving on to something stronger?"
The bartender, Ava according to her name tag, leans against the bar. She’s a stereotype of most L.A. tropes, vivid purple hair, countless piercings and tattoos that tell stories I have no interest in. She’s smiling at me. It’s a bright, genuine expression that feels invasive in its warmth. I’ve always found that people who smile that easily are either lying to you or themselves.
I don’t smile back.
I give her a single, curt nod....the universal signal for ‘be gone’, and pull my phone from my coat pocket. My inbox is a desert. There's no crises, no urgent demands.
And the noise of the club is really starting to grate, a relentless, rhythmic thud that feels less like music and more like a migraine in the making. My glass is nearly empty, the last of the Umbra clinging to the ice. I’m ready to trade this sensory assault for the sterile, haunting silence of my own home.
I’m reaching for my wallet when Ava lets out a long, theatrical sigh. "Finally!" she calls out, her voice cutting through the bass as she looks toward the service entrance. "Unless that casting call came with a signing bonus big enough to cover my overtime, you’re officially in the red with me."
I don't turn my head, I don't care, but my periphery catches a blur of movement. A figure rounds the corner of the bar, shoulders hunched against a chill that hasn't quite left him. A dark hoodie is pulled low over his face, and the unmistakable, rigid shape of a violin case strapped to his back.
"Traffic on the 405 is a circle of hell Dante forgot to mention," he says.
His voice is smooth. Melodic. There’s a lyrical quality to it that makes the air in my immediate radius feel thinner.
Ava reaches out, her hand landing on his shoulder. "You're fucking soaked. You look like you lost a fight with a fire hydrant. Was the casting held underwater?" He doesn't look at the room, keeping his face angled away as he unclips the violin. “Nope, apparently, L.A. decided to have its annual five minutes of monsoon season right when I stepped out of the car," he explains. "Go. Clock out. Let's give the people who they really want. I'm going to stash my gear before I start growing moss."
He moves toward the door behind the counter, his back still toward me. There’s a lethal grace to the way he walks, effortless and aware, like he was made to be noticed.
"Wait," Ava calls out as he reaches for the handle. "How was the casting? Did they realize you’re a star yet?"
He pauses, the door halfway open. He doesn't turn around, but I see the slight, tilt of his head. "Oh, it was a dream. The director said I had ‘an undeniable aura’.... but apparently it was too much for the role. Too alive, too distracting, too me. So yeah, they turned me down. I still call that a win.”
The door clicks shut behind him, swallowing his voice. I watch Ava as she pours a final drink for a guy down the line. "You're leaving?" the customer asks, sounding disappointed.
"Better yet," she chirps, wiping a spot of condensation. “I’m leaving you in much more capable, much more dangerous hands. Just don’t let him talk you into a blind tequila taste test or make you try and guess the cocktail ingredients. You’ll regret it.”
I look down at my glass. The ice has melted into a small, clear pool. I reach into my wallet, pulling out a few notes. I begin to stand, ready to get the hell out of this place.
Then the door opens again....
The air in the room shifts. It’s subtle, but I feel it in the marrow of my bones. I stop mid-motion, my gaze snapping to the man who just stepped back into the light.
The hoodie is gone.
He’s wearing a fitted black tank top that clings to the lean, corded muscle of his torso like a second skin. His hair is dark and damp, sticking in messy spikes against his forehead. A single stud glints in his ear, catching the neon pulse of the club, drawing my eye to the sharp, elegant line of his jaw. He’s beautiful. Not in the way people in this city usually are....polished and plastic, but in a way that feels raw and electric.
He grabs the towel from Ava’s hand as she’s wiping the counter, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Are we gossiping about me already? I was only gone for a minute."
My throat tightens. It’s a physical reaction, a sudden, violent thrum in my chest that I've never felt before. I look down at the cash in my hand, then at the empty glass, then back at him.
He laughs at something that's said, a soft infectious sound that cuts through the noise like a blade.
I should leave. My car is waiting. The haunting silence is waiting...
But as he reaches up for a bottle on the top shelf, his back stretches, shoulders rolling with effortless control, muscles flexing beneath the fabric of his tank. My eyes follow the movement, taking in the curve of his spine, the subtle tension in his arms.
And those jeans....
They’re dark, lived-in denim that grips him with a predatory possessiveness. As he reaches higher, the fabric pulls taut, molding perfectly to the perfect, rounded curve of his ass . A sharp, violent heat spikes in my gut, traveling south with a ruthlessness that catches me off guard. My cock twitches, a heavy, insistent throb.
I don’t rise. I sit back down, sliding the wallet back into my pocket.