Chapter 8
Emily Windsor's POV
After deleting Luke's contact, I collapsed against the steering wheel, gasping for air. It took only a second to erase a phone number, but wiping away the fear and brand Luke had burned into me felt like it would cost me a lifetime of courage.
I forced myself to calm down and reassess the trap closing in around me. Luke's men had saved me—not out of kindness, but as a warning. A silent demonstration of control.
He was like a spider's web slowly tightening, trying to trap me completely in his world.
And there was only one reason he'd go to such lengths: the Victor family's money laundering case.
This case was my breaking point. My only lifeline.
If I couldn't avoid it, then I'd have to face it head-on and seize back control.
I restarted the car and drove straight back to the law firm.
Over the next few days, I buried myself in the case files.
The Victor family's laundering network was a labyrinth—funds flowing through dozens of shell companies and offshore accounts before converging on a single destination: a high-end private club called Nightingale.
The club was notorious in Manhattan's upper echelons for its extreme discretion and luxurious services. Its membership was a who's who of wealth and power—the perfect breeding ground for backroom deals and dirty money.
But my investigation hit a wall at every turn.
All public records on Nightingale were suspiciously spotless. Every private investigator I hired came back empty-handed—either turned away at the door or fed useless scraps of information. It was as if an invisible hand had scrubbed away every possible lead.
I knew conventional methods wouldn't work.
If I wanted to crack this fortress open, I'd have to go there myself.
Friday evening, I traded my stiff professional suit for a sleek black silk dress. The cut was simple but sultry, hugging my curves and leaving my slender ankles exposed. I applied bolder makeup than usual—crimson lips like fire, masking the exhaustion and pallor beneath.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror was sharp-eyed and cold, radiating an unapproachable elegance.
Nightingale was tucked away in Manhattan's most exclusive district. Its entrance was deceptively modest—a single heavy ebony door flanked by two hulking security guards.
I took a deep breath, strode forward on my heels, and handed over my business card.
"Miss Windsor?" The guard glanced at it, a flicker of scrutiny crossing his face. "Sorry. The club operates on a members-only reservation system. Without an appointment, I can't let you in."
"I'm not here for entertainment," I said coolly, meeting his gaze. "I'm here on behalf of the Victor family case. I need to speak with your manager."
Dropping the Victor name was calculated—both a key and a test.
The guard's expression shifted slightly, but he didn't budge. "Apologies, Miss Windsor. I haven't received any notice."
We were at an impasse when a syrupy, mocking voice cut through from behind me.
"Well, well, if it isn't Emily. What's this? Jacob dumped you, so now you're trolling places like this for a new sugar daddy?"
I didn't need to turn around to know it was Julie.
She was dressed in a low-cut pink cocktail dress tonight, clinging to some slicked-back trust fund brat, her face smug with schadenfreude.
"Miss Perez," I replied icily, not even bothering to spare her a glance. "You seem awfully free to be this invested in my personal life."
Julie's smile faltered for half a second before she recovered, lifting her chin even higher. She waved a gold-embossed membership card in the guard's face. "I'm a member here. I have a reservation tonight."
The guard immediately switched to a deferential tone and opened the door for her.
Julie swept inside, then turned back to look down at me, her mockery practically dripping from her lips.
"Emily, you should just give up. Nightingale isn't for just anyone. And the owner? Not someone you can see just because you feel like it." She paused, her tone biting. "You couldn't even keep Jacob. You really think you can latch onto someone here? Pathetic."
I ignored her theatrics, my gaze fixed on that heavy door. My patience was wearing thin, a volatile mix of frustration and fury simmering beneath my composed exterior.
"Miss Windsor?"
A man in a sharp black suit emerged from inside—clearly a manager. He walked straight past Julie and stopped in front of me, his demeanor respectful but detached. "Our boss would like to see you."
Julie's smile froze. She stared, stunned.
"Your boss?" I arched an eyebrow, instantly on guard.
"Yes. Please, follow me." He gestured toward the entrance.
I shot Julie a cold, fleeting smirk before stepping past her, following the manager through that heavy door.
Julie and her date were left standing at the elevator lobby, security blocking their path, forced to watch as I stepped into the private elevator reserved for the top floor—the one that symbolized absolute power.
The elevator's mirrored interior reflected my calm face, but my knuckles, gripping my clutch, were bone-white.
I didn't know who owned Nightingale. But if they knew who I was and requested to see me by name, they had to be connected to the Victor family.
The elevator stopped at the penthouse. The doors slid open.
Before me stretched an expansive sky lounge. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Manhattan's glittering skyline. The air was thick with the cold, familiar scent of cigars and cedarwood—the same scent that had filled my car that night.
My heart sank like a stone.
In the center of the room, a man sat with his back to me. He wore a dark silk robe, his tall frame draped lazily across the sofa. In his hand, a whiskey glass swirled slowly, ice clinking against crystal.
At the sound of my footsteps, he turned.
It was a face I'd tried desperately to forget—but one that haunted my dreams.
Beautiful as a god. Dangerous as the devil.
Luke lounged against the sofa, legs crossed, his gaze sweeping over me from head to toe—an unabashed appraisal laced with possession. Those ice-blue eyes gleamed under the crystal chandelier like a frozen abyss, threatening to swallow me whole.
"Miss Windsor," he murmured, his voice a low, magnetic drawl, a hint of amusement curling at his lips. "We meet again."