Chapter 15 Dante
The soft restaurant lights made her hair glow like embers, and the faint flush on her cheeks only sharpened the fire in her. I could’ve stayed across that table for hours, listening to her speak. But the moment felt too exposed. Too public.
And she had answers I needed — answers that shouldn’t be shared with half the city listening.
I set down my glass and met her eyes.
“Seraphine,” I said, “would you accompany me to another establishment up the road?”
Her fingers paused around her drink. “Another… establishment?”
“It’s a new club,” I explained. “My business partner and I just opened it. I’d like to check on it, and…”
I held her gaze.
“…continue our conversation somewhere private.”
She didn’t move — didn’t blink — only searched my face long enough to decide whether I was being truthful.
I was.
She finished the last sip of her vodka soda, set the glass down with a soft click, and nodded.
“I’ll come with you.”
A sharp, unexpected satisfaction shot through me.
I stood immediately, stepping around the table and offering my hand. She hesitated just long enough to remind me she wasn’t used to being treated with intention — then placed her hand in mine.
Warm. Small. Steady.
I helped her up, guiding her beside me. As we walked toward the exit, I felt — without turning — the daggers of her brother’s glare and the tense curiosity radiating off Rio.
Let them look.
Let them wonder.
She walked beside me.
Outside, the city hummed with late-night life. Neon lights reflected off wet pavement, and the distant thrum of music drifted through the streets.
We walked hand in hand down the block, the cool night air brushing between us.
I broke the silence first.
“What do you enjoy doing in your spare time,” I asked, “when you’re not working or suffering through disastrous double dates with your brother and his poor excuse of a partner?”
Her laugh — soft, startled, real — hit me harder than it should have.
“I don’t get a lot of free time these days,” she admitted. “But when I was younger… I loved reading.”
“Reading?” I repeated.
She nodded. “I devoured books. All kinds. I’d go through them like candy. And I loved writing.”
A shy smile tugged at her lips.
“I even won a few writing contests. One of them got me a scholarship for journalism. That’s… how I ended up on this path, actually.”
I took that in.
Of all the things she could’ve shared, she chose something vulnerable. Something true.
“I’m surprised you opened up that easily,” I said honestly.
She shrugged. “You asked. And it’s harmless information. You’re not asking for my social security number or anything.”
I smirked. “Not yet.”
She rolled her eyes. “Funny.”
“But I’m not surprised you love reading and writing,” I added.
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Journalists,” I said, “like to bury themselves in stories. Whether they’re their own or someone else’s.”
She looked away — but she didn’t deny it.
After a moment, she asked, “What about you? What do you do when you’re not building clubs… or ruining double dates?”
I gave a slow grin. “Is that what I did? Ruin it?”
Her expression softened. “You didn’t help it.”
I chuckled under my breath. “Fair enough. As for what I enjoy… occasionally? Rock climbing.”
Her eyes widened. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You don’t seem like the rock climbing type.”
“And what type do I seem like?”
She opened her mouth — paused — then shook her head. “You don’t want the answer.”
“Oh, I do,” I said. “But I’ll let you keep your secrets.”
She huffed lightly. “Fine. What else?”
“I own a cabin in the mountains,” I said. “On a lake. I go there when the city gets… too loud.”
Her brows rose. “Do you just… sit outside and enjoy nature? Or do you actually do outdoorsy things? Hunting, fishing… that sort of stuff?”
“I hunt and fish when I get the itch,” I replied. “Not often. But sometimes the quiet matters.”
She absorbed that for a moment, her steps falling in sync with mine.
“I didn’t expect you to be someone who likes quiet,” she said softly.
“Then you’ll be surprised a lot around me.”
We continued walking, the streets growing less crowded, the voices fading behind us the farther we got from the restaurant.
She asked me a few more questions.
“Who designs your clubs?”
“What got you into hospitality?”
“How long have you lived in the city?”
“What’s your favorite food?”
I answered every one.
Her curiosity wasn’t nosy — it was genuine.
Pure.
Unfiltered.
The kind of curiosity people lose by the time they reach adulthood.
And gods, I liked it.
Finally, I slowed us to a stop.
She followed my gaze forward — toward the building ahead of us.
The club stood tall and gleaming, its exterior a cascading gradient of violet, red, and deep ocean blue. Soft lights danced across the surface, the design blending flame and tide into something hypnotic.
Her breath caught.
“Oh,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”
I watched her instead of the building.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “It is.”
And I didn’t mean the club.
I watched her face as she took in the sleek lines of the building — the shimmer of violet lights across the glass, the flashes of crimson and deep blue weaving together like opposing forces colliding in harmony.
“Well?” I asked. “What do you think?”
She didn’t answer right away — she stared, wide-eyed, lips parting just slightly.
“It’s… absolutely beautiful,” she breathed. “And it’s close to my place, too. I might actually go out more often now.”
A win.
A quiet, satisfying win that settled warmly beneath my ribs.
If she came here often, I’d see her more than once.
I stepped closer, still holding her hand lightly.
“Good,” I said. “Then help me with something.”
She blinked. “Help you with what?”
“A name,” I said simply. “The club needs one.”
Her jaw dropped. “You—you can’t ask me to name your club.”
“I can,” I said. “And I am.”
She stared at me like I’d just handed her the keys. Then she turned, looking back at the building again — really studying it now.
“Elemental Veil,” she said.
I raised a brow. “That’s your final choice?”
She nodded. “Your other clubs have ‘Veil’ in their names, right? Obsidian Veil… Scarlet Veil… Glass Veil…”
She shrugged lightly.
“It fits. And ‘Elemental’ matches fire and water. Balance. Power. Opposites. All of it.”
I stared at her longer than I meant to.
Most people pitch a name like they’re trying to impress me.
Most people toss something flashy at me without understanding the meaning.
Most people forget that a club’s name becomes its identity.
But Seraphine?
She chose something that connected to everything — my brand, my legacy, the symbol behind the design, even the damn lighting scheme — without even trying.
Her cheeks flushed. “It’s probably stupid. We can forget it—”
“No.”
She froze.
I stepped closer, gently turning her hand in mine so her palm faced up.
“It’s perfect,” I said quietly, just like her, but I kept that to myself.