Meeting Adrian

Sienna

Working for eight days straight has to be a violation of my human rights—except I can’t sue anyone but myself. Even my own boss had been telling me to rest. But if I, Sienna Carter, didn’t get to the bottom of this story and publish it, today would have been a bad day for me. I would’ve been at home, rotting away, still thinking about how I could be finishing the story.

I smiled to myself, bobbing my head to the cool music playing in the bar I had just stepped into. My gaze swept across the room, and I can’t lie—maybe I overdid it. I wanted to celebrate my milestone in journalism, but instead, I may have just walked into a place where I’d blow my entire paycheck in one sitting.

The atmosphere was smooth, almost too refined to be a bar—at least not the kind I was used to. Different corners had different vibes, different themes, different drinks. Naturally, I headed for the coolest one, the darkest one. Fitting since I was a crime journalist, anyway.

I nodded at the bartender and pointed to a whiskey. In seconds, he slid me a shot of something I didn’t recognize, but I drowned it anyway. The liquid burned its way down my throat, and within minutes, the music started hitting harder than when I first walked in. But alcohol wasn’t doing its job fast enough. I stood up and started to dance a little.

Then I heard it.

"Am I sexual?? Yeah yeah—"

A laugh bubbled up in my throat as I sang along, slowly slipping into the fun I had envisioned for myself. A guy stepped toward me, but I waved him off before he could even get close. Not interested.

Just as I spun around again, my eyes kept catching the same black suit. Almost every direction I turned, there it was. I paused for a second, pretending to adjust my hair, and glanced up toward the VIP section perched upstairs—the spot where, maybe, the super-rich watched from. Even from down here, that area looked hella suspicious.

A small cluster of men sat up there, barely visible under the low, pulsing lights, but the black-suited guys? There were more of them up there than down here. Way more.

No way the president was here—who the hell needed that much security?

This could be a story.

I started dancing with a little more purpose now, paying closer attention to my surroundings. More men started trickling in. Something was definitely going on.

Casually, I reached for my phone and held it up like I was taking a video of myself—except I was aiming just past my reflection, trying to capture the scene unfolding in front of me.

I headed straight for a stool—I needed more stability to capture whatever was going on. Just then, a few of the men I’d been watching earlier started walking in my direction. I tilted my camera slightly, angling it just right to catch their faces.

My eyes flicked back to the VIP section.

It was empty.

The people who had been there before were gone. A sharp sense of urgency hit me—I needed to see where they went. Just as I stood up, a female bartender passing by slammed into me, knocking me right back into my seat. Before I could recover—

My phone was gone.

Yeah. I was in the devil’s lair. And they’d caught me, for sure.

But the bartender in front of me looked concerned, quickly patting at the alcohol that had spilled onto my clothes. I pulled away, resisting.

“I’m so sorry,” she said sweetly, like she had no clue what was happening. Like she wouldn’t belong in whatever this was. But I knew better. Just a few years as an investigative journalist had taught me that the biggest criminals often had the most innocent faces.

“Where is my phone?” I asked.

She blinked at me, feigning confusion.

“My phone.” My voice rose. If I was about to go down here, at least a few people needed to know about it. Not everyone in this bar could be a criminal.

“Here.”

A deep voice cut through the noise.

I snapped my head up to see who spoke, but I barely even looked at him before I snatched my phone back. My fingers flew over the screen as I checked my gallery.

Everything was still there. The videos. The pictures.

It hadn’t been wiped.

Hadn’t been bugged. Not in that short amount of time.

The bartender’s voice pulled me back to the present.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated before disappearing into the crowd.

That’s when I finally took a real look at him.

He was tall. Really tall. At least 6’2. The dim, moody lighting barely softened the sharp cut of his jaw, the effortless way he held himself, like he was used to being in control. His gaze dipped slightly, taking me in the same way I was taking him in, and that smirk never left his lips.

“Why were you so startled?” he asked, voice so deep it practically vibrated through me. The type of voice that could bring a woman to ovulation.

“Huh?”

“You didn’t realize you panicked?”

“Did I?” I frowned. “I was just scared of—” I stopped mid-sentence, my eyes darting around for an excuse. Then I recovered quickly, reaching for his wrist and tugging him toward the bar. “Come get a drink with me.”

His skin was warm beneath my fingers. He let me lead him, the heat of his body following me too closely, his presence pressing into mine even though we weren’t touching anymore.

As soon as he sat down, his face became even clearer under the dim bar lights. I couldn’t explain it, but something about him felt powerful. He looked at me like everything was fine. Like I could tell him anything.

Was it the mesmerizing hazel eyes? The tousled hair? Or the fact that he was dressed so casually compared to everyone else?

Then I noticed his Rolex.

Nope. Definitely not like me.

My gaze dropped lower—Italian leather shoes. Hell no, he wasn’t like me.

“So what is this place?” I asked, the most reasonable question I could think of.

“A bar?” He lifted a hand, gesturing slightly at the bartender. Within seconds, a cocktail appeared in front of me.

“I didn’t order that.”

“I did.”

“I didn’t tell you I wanted that.”

“Most ladies like it,” he said, casually glancing around.

His own drink arrived, and I realized something—he hadn’t spoken a single word to the bartender.

“You’re a regular here?”

He nodded.

I hesitated, then picked up the glass and took a sip. Surprisingly, it was good.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” he asked.

I still couldn’t get over how his voice sounded.

“I don’t know,” I lied.

He chuckled, and something about the deep, lazy sound sent a shiver down my spine.

A few seats away, I heard someone ask for the price of a shot.

One pour.

A hundred dollars.

The number hit me like a slap.

“So, you from here?” the man in front of me asked.

“Are you from here?” I countered.

Another chuckle before he nodded.

“I thought this was a criminal ring earlier.”

“You don’t think so anymore?”

I gestured toward the suited men stationed strategically around the room, then at the people slipping into the VIP section. “It looked suspicious to me.”

“I came from there,” he said.

My eyes snapped back to him.

“They’re just rich men showing off with their bodyguards.”

“Oh.” I glanced around again. Suddenly, it all seemed to make sense. “So, you’re one of them?”

“Can’t say I’m not,” he said easily, lifting his glass to his lips.

The movement was slow, deliberate. Intentional.

“Wow. I just walked right in without a clue.”

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Sienna. Sienna Carter.”

His gaze met mine. “Sienna.” His voice curled around my name, slow and deliberate. “You look nice. Wanna crash at a hotel with me?”

No hesitation. No shame. No change in expression.

My eyes widened. I had never been asked something like that so boldly in my life.

But I also couldn’t ignore the attraction curling low in my stomach.

Before I could stop myself, I nodded mindlessly.

If I was here to have fun, I might as well have all the fun tonight.

He signaled to a guy nearby.

And that’s when it hit me—

He was one of the rich men.