The Louvre was the kind of place where people came to be seen without admitting that they wanted to be seen.
The club occupied the lower three floors of an old converted building downtown, all dark wood, black marble, blindingly bright and colourful lights, and music that somehow managed to be loud without becoming unbearable.
We have been coming there for years, preferring the private rooms upstairs.
No photographers.
No strangers wandering over.
No one asking for introductions or pretending they had accidentally ended up in the room.
Our private room was at the far end of the second floor, enclosed on one side by a floor-to-ceiling glass wall that overlooked the club.
From up here, the crowd looked almost harmless.
I sat in one of the leather chairs, silently swirling my whiskey, listening to Lucien’s story which I had already decided wasn’t true.
“…and I’m telling you, the man looked me directly in the eye and said he had never heard of the company.” Jonathan laughed.
“That’s because you were talking to the wrong man.” “I wasn’t.” “I think you were.” “I know I wasn’t.” Ren leaned further back into the sofa, asking, “Who was he?” “The chief operating officer.” Jonathan snorted.
Lucien pointed at him.
“I hate you.” I took a slow drink, slightly amused.
When Lucien flipped Jonathan off, Ren gave a guttural laugh, topping off his glass.
He had only been back in town for less than twenty-four hours, but already he looked as though he’d never left.
His jacket was thrown carelessly over the arm of the sofa, his shirt sleeves rolled just above his wrists to show the start of his tattoos, and his phone sat face down on the table.
Jonathan, who as usual, looked irritatingly composed, replied Lucien ‘fuck off’ with an arrogant smile.
He had the rare ability to look like he had stepped out of a board meeting into a nightclub without changing a thing.
Lucien was the opposite.
He looked like he’d been born for a party.
‘Pecks of his business’, he would say, but I knew better.
The Hand has been a brotherhood—my brotherhood—for the longest of time.
We had birthed it even before my parents’ death which was a good thing as they had helped me survive that terrible ordeal.
But sometimes, I wished they would leave me the fuck alone.
Silence was a virtue Jonathan and Lucien missed out on.
“So Roman,” Lucien called me back to the room.
“How’s your talk with Singapore?” I took a light sip and let the golden liquid bring me back completely to the room.
“Same.” I answered.
Mainly because I had not replied to their email yet.
Brooklyn would have a heart attack.
“And Bovil?
There’s a lot of talk about it.” “Two weeks.” Lucien raised his glass.
“That’s great.
And you know you’ll have to prepare for when the regulatory approval clears.” Jonathan sent a salted cracker before he took a sip of his whiskey.
“And it will in two weeks?” “What wrong in hoping?” “Nothing.
unless you are an optimist.” “There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of optimism, but I’m a realist.” “Those two are mutually exclusive.
You fucking believe in love.” Lucien gasped.
“I’m French.” “And I’m Korean, since we are naming origins now.” “Love is a human thing.
I’m human.” “Debatable.” An abrupt silence settled in the room.
I looked from one man to the other.
They were always at loggerheads which was not a surprise as their personalities clashed perfectly, but tonight was intense.
Suddenly, Ren burst out laughing.
“Kono kudaranasa, akinai na.” he muttered.
Then gesturing around the room, he added, “This is better than sitting in a conference room with people trying to sell me something.” I shook my head.
Better for him, not for me.
“Give it ten more minutes.” Jonathan raised his glass, momentarily ending whatever was going on between him and Lucien.
As if summoned by the comment, Lucien picked up his phone.
“Actually, speaking of people trying to sell us something…” Jonathan groaned.
Lucien ignored him.
What the hell was wrong with the both of them?
“A hotel group in Seattle emailed last week.
They want a merger.
Their flagship property is in downtown Seattle.
Five-star.
Strong in corporate travel and hospitality.
Manageable debt.
Privately owned.” Ren’s expression did not change.
“So why the merger?” Lucien unlocked his phone and scrolled through.
“That’s what I want to know.
With approximately two hundred and forty million revenue last year they don’t need anyone.” “Name.” “Smith Hotels.” Ren nodded.
“Next week.” And a deal was struck.
Quietly, I watched the exchange before turning to the club.
The music had changed.
A slow beat rolled through the club, and through the glass wall, I watched the crowd below shift with it.
It was interesting to watch people from a pedestal.
Interesting, thrilling and most of all, empowering.
Knowing they could never watch me as I did them.
If they ever saw me, it was because I allowed it.
Suddenly, I saw a familiar face.
A familiar profile.
My glass halfway to my lips, I froze.
Blond hair, average height, easy build.
My chest gave an unexpected flutter.
Dr Holt?
She was standing near the bar in a dress that should be a crime to have ever left the design room, conversing with a man, nearly leaning on him.
When she laughed at something the man said, my hand tightened around the glass.
Without thinking, I rushed to the glass wall to get a proper look, but she turned slightly and disappointment brought me relief.
It was not her.
“Roman?” Jonathan was suddenly beside me.
He craned his neck, searching the floor.
“Is there a problem?” “No.” “Is she someone you know?” When I turned to face him, he was looking at the same woman I had mistaken for Megan.
“No,” I said again, glaring now at the lookalike downstairs.
“Interesting.” I gave him a warning look.
Lucien glanced over.
“What’s happening?
Something interesting?” “Nothing.” I nearly snapped.
“I’m leaving.” I was done with the evening.
“Something important came in?” Jonathan asked, still looking at the woman at the bar.
I gave him another look, noting his sarcasm.
He smiled innocently.
Then his face straightened as he turned to me.
“By the way, how’s Riley doing?
How long has it been?” Four days.
It has been four days since the incident, and how could I forget how long when the doctor refused to leave my thoughts?
“She’s fine.” I slammed the glass on the table, hard enough to gain a reaction but I was not bothered, and grabbed my phone.
My driver had better still be with the car.
“I need to go.” When I arrived at the club floor, my eyes scanned the room.
The lookalike was gone.
I should have been relieved.
Instead, I found myself searching the crowd again, expecting to see her.
Why was I fucking searching for her?!
Irritated, I marched to my car.
I needed to stop thinking about her.
I needed to hate the fact that I remembered her name.
And I needed to forgive myself for the ridiculous moment when I had mistaken a stranger for her.
My driver pushed out of the driveway and I stared back at the building wondering, for one irrational second, if Megan truly was in that club, and if I was confusing her for the stranger instead of the other way round.
“Fuck me.” I muttered under my breath.