TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-SEVEN
The car ride was quiet.

Not tense. Not awkward. Just… faint. Like the city itself had decided to lower its volume for a while. The low hum of traffic outside the windows was the only sound between us.

Wesley sat beside me in the backseat, scrolling through something on his phone. He wore a casual suit—dark, expensive, the kind you didn’t button at the top. His shirt was slightly open at the collar, no tie. His hair, usually slicked back or perfectly set, had fallen loose. A few strands framed his face.

He looked good. Too good. Like something pulled straight out of a dream you weren’t supposed to have.

I forced my eyes to the window.

The streetlights blurred past. The glow of the city bounced off the glass. I could feel my hands resting in my lap, fingers twitching slightly from all the things I wanted to say but wouldn’t.

I thought about the letter. The envelope was still in the drawer, unopened, whispering for attention. I could tell him. I should tell him.

But I didn’t.

Not yet.

This didn’t feel like the right moment. We hadn’t said two words since leaving the house, and I wasn’t about to break the silence with a mystery note from God knows who.

So I stayed quiet.

Wesley didn’t seem bothered by the silence. He never did.

The car turned down a darker road, one I didn’t recognize. The street narrowed, the city lights dimming. We passed rows of shuttered storefronts and graffiti-covered alleys. Then the car rolled to a stop in front of a sleek black building with no sign, no windows.

Just stairs. Leading down.

Wesley opened the door and stepped out. I followed.

The entrance was hidden, barely lit, guarded by a thick steel door and one man in all black standing in front of a velvet rope. No line. No music leaking through. Just a red light overhead casting everything in deep shadow.

Wesley walked up, didn’t say a word.

The guard took one look, nodded once, and unhooked the rope.

That was it.

No password. No list. No checking IDs.

I glanced at Wesley as he held the door for me.

He didn’t look at me.

Just waited. Calm. Like he owned the place.

I stepped through, pulse already rising, unsure what we were walking into—and why it felt like I wasn’t ready.

The club was a world of shadows.

Low music pulsed through the walls, not loud enough to dance to, but enough to feel in your chest. The air was thick—perfume, sweat, smoke—and everything was cast in the kind of red and gold light that made it hard to tell where anything began or ended. Faces weren’t faces. Just silhouettes. People moved slowly. Purposefully. Nothing casual happened in here.

Velvet booths lined the walls like confessionals, each one filled with someone important, someone dangerous, or someone trying to be both.

It was the kind of place you didn’t find unless you were invited. The kind of place you didn’t walk into without knowing your exit.

And I’d been in places like this before.

Marco had taken me to one not long after we got married. I remember how his arm stayed wrapped around my waist the entire night like I was a trophy. I remember feeling watched. Important. Untouchable.

I also remember thinking it meant something.

Back then, I was still stupid enough to believe he loved me.

Wesley didn’t say much as he guided me through the space, one hand low on my back as we moved past thick curtains and hidden doors. He nodded at people. They nodded back.

We stopped at one booth, where three men sat in half-shadow, glasses in hand, suits tailored within an inch of their lives.

“This is her?” one of them asked.

Wesley nodded.

The man looked me over, not in a sleazy way—just curious. Calculating. Like I was a card being played in a high-stakes game.

“She’s dangerous pretty,” he said finally. “That kind of pretty gets people hurt.”

Another man, older, leaned in. “You sure about this, Wes? You know how this ends. One day things go south, and she’s the one who gets caught in the crossfire.”

I didn’t say a word. Just kept my face still, like I didn’t hear it.

But I heard every word.

Wesley didn’t blink. “She’s not going anywhere.”

He said it calm. Quiet. Like a fact.

They nodded, and the conversation shifted—names I didn’t recognize, money being moved, who got clipped last week and why.

But I was still stuck on that one line.

She’s not going anywhere.

And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if that was a promise…
or a warning.

The booth was tucked into a dark corner, far from the main crowd, half-sheltered by a heavy curtain. It was the kind of seat designed for privacy. Deals. Secrets. The kind of place no one saw unless they were looking too closely.

I slid into the leather, sinking into it as the red and gold lighting bathed everything around us in a haze. The table glowed softly from underneath, but just enough to light the drinks. Not the people.

Wesley sat beside me, stretching one arm across the back of the booth, his other hand nursing a glass of something dark. He looked completely at ease. Like this wasn’t new. Like he belonged here.

The music thrummed low and slow, more heartbeat than melody.

I let myself breathe for the first time since we got there.

Until I felt it.

A stare.

You know when someone’s eyes are on you—you don’t even have to look. The air just shifts.

I tried to brush it off at first, but it lingered. Heavy. Intentional.

I glanced across the room casually, like I was just looking around. Not reacting. Not hunting.

But I saw them.

Two men in the far corner. Shadowed, nearly invisible. One leaned against the bar, the other sat back, drink untouched.

And I knew them.

I didn’t know their names. But I’d seen them before—behind Marco at dinners, at the edge of rooms during meetings, the kind of men who didn’t talk. They watched. They listened. And they followed orders.

Marco’s men.

My breath caught. My fingers clenched the hem of my dress under the table.

What the hell were they doing here?

I leaned in, kept my voice low, close to Wesley’s ear.

“We have a problem,” I said.

He didn’t move right away. Just finished his sip, set the glass down gently, and turned his head slightly.

His eyes met mine.

No words. Not yet.

But something in him shifted.
And I knew he’d seen them too.