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On the other side, the living area holds a soft loveseat and a single armchair, angled toward low bookshelves that came already filled. Beautiful foiled hardcovers pop against the minimalist décor, and well-chosen artwork makes the home feel warmer than a generic hotel suite might.

Beyond the kitchen, the bedroom sits partially open, just separated enough to feel private. An armoire stands against the wall for my clothes, a simple nightstand beside the bed. No clutter, no excess. Just the perfect amount of space. And knowing it’s located within the walls of this heavily secure fortress provides the calm I need to relax enough to sleep. At least until the nightmares return. Yet even these have improved.

There are no flashing scenes of horrific attacks to remind me of where I’ve been. I guess that’s one good thing about a severe head injury. I have no recollection of what happened. Only minor snippets that don’t add up to anything really. My nightmares are limited to the worry about what hides in the shadows after threats emerged that they’d finish what they started.

Standing, I move over to the gorgeous drapes that cover the living room window and pull back the edge. My fingertips dance along the heavy embossed fabric. It’s a luxurious floral brocade I could never afford on my own. Each section of the living quarters has its own window, both fitted with blinds and these blackout curtains that block out the light entirely if I want them to. Guess it’s essential in a place that thrives after dark.

But is it the light I’ve been blocking out, or the world itself? I keep the living room window closed, as it has more access from the street below. Yet the bedroom window is obstructed by a large oak. So I leave the curtains open a tad to allow the morning light to peer through the blinds each day. Otherwise, I might never get out of bed.

The décor is all soft neutrals. A mixture of warm grays, creams, and pale wood tones. It’s clearly higher-end than anything I’d ever afford on my own. Especially not on a police officer’s salary. This is the kind of place that looks effortless because someone else paid a lot of money to make it that way.

Gianni left no detail out of this club, I think, shaking my head. Even the guest apartments feel like luxury. If this is a basic staff or guest apartment, I can’t help wondering what the decadent rooms on the third and fourth floors must look like.

My mind again wanders to Max. Whether he’s ever been up there. Did he watch or participate? Or is he, like Lala said, more of the type who keeps his affairs private, going to The Rox?

Regardless, his interest in speaking with me was most likely sheer curiosity. The novelty of finding out I’m into cybertechnology had to be what sparked the conversation. That’s the rational answer. Because allowing myself to consider anything else, like the electricity that lights up my flesh when I replay the way he looked at me…

Well, that is just dangerous.

“Okay, but listen,” Lala says, gracefully lowering herself down on the couch with her tablet, “if we’re doing a seventies theme, we have to commit. Fondue and other fun appetizers, shag rugs in the VIP sections, and disco balls. Real ones.”

“I’m almost afraid to think about what you’re going to have us wear,” Brier moans.

Candice spins in a slow circle, wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses shaped like hearts. “I’m thinking a gold jumpsuit with a deep V-neck.” She grabs each of her oversized breasts and squeezes to emphasize her statement. “I want to look like I escaped from an ABBA fever dream.”

Fern snorts. “You already do.” Her phone buzzes on the table. She glances at it and winces. “It’s my little brother,” Fern says, answering quickly. Her voice shifts instantly, soft and worried. “Hey, buddy… what? Louisa’s sick? Hospital sick?”

My stomach falls at her obvious concern. She listens, pacing now. “Okay. Okay. Don’t panic. Stay put. Lock the door. I’ll figure something out.” When she hangs up, she looks torn in half. “I don’t know what to do. He’s only eight. It’s so hard to find sitters. So in between, Louisa next door has been watching him. But he said she looked really bad and called 911.”

Lala doesn’t hesitate. “Go. We’ll cover you.”

“I can take it,” I say, the words coming out before I’ve fully processed them. “I don’t have anything planned tonight.” My homework’s done. I was just going to do some extra assignments for fun anyway.

Fern exhales, visibly relieved. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” I say. And I mean it. Well, that and an extra chance to see if Max arrives at the club tonight.

Lately, I’ve been tearing through my coursework like someone lit a fire under me. It’s one thing to analyze fictional data for class. It’s another thing altogether to think about real investigations.

Meeting Max has breathed new life into my digital forensics assignments. It was already more riveting than I anticipated. But the more I do it, the more it doesn’t feel like studying. It’s like solving puzzles in a video game. Like something in my brain clicks into place, allowing those patterns to glow.

I used to think I’d want to continue to work for the police. Still do, honestly. Crimes against people. Working hard for victims. Searching for justice that actually matters. Is that what his company does?

He probably handles rich people shit. Corporate breaches and espionage, embezzlement, and leaks of proprietary data. Important, sure. But not where my heart lives. My heart lives in the messier stuff. The human stuff. Helping victims who don’t have the resources to fight for themselves. It seems so much more appealing than private companies working to determine who stole their money.

While I’ve only considered jobs in law enforcement in the past, I haven’t ruled out other sectors. If they hold enough of an appeal to get me excited to work each day.

Especially ones run by Max Wilde.

By the time I’m dressed and back on the floor, my nerves are buzzing. The constant thoughts that have invaded my mind are messing with me. I wonder what he’s working on.

I catch myself scanning VIP again. Nothing. No Max. It’s been weeks since he was here. Was he out of town? Avoiding me? Or worse, had I crossed some invisible line by showing too much interest?

Nice way to follow Lala’s advice, Cassidy. Just do your damn job and leave him alone.

Anthony passes by just as some silver-haired guy is leaning way too close to Brier. “Girls like you don’t end up in places like this by accident,” he murmurs. “What would it take to keep you busy for the rest of the night?”

Brier’s lips part in surprise. Her eyes flick toward us for half a second in a silent did you just hear that?