If there’s one thing I’ve learned about rich people, it’s that they love places where you need a secret password, three blood sacrifices, and a net worth of fifty million just to sit on a velvet couch.
Which brought us to The Obsidian Vault—New York’s most exclusive cigar and whiskey lounge.
The lighting was dim, the ambient Jazz was quiet, and the room smelled like expensive mahogany, aged scotch, and pure arrogance.
Every single person in here was either a CEO, an heiress, or someone whose family owned a small island.
And then there was Julian Sterling.
He sat on the plush leather booth beside me, looking like absolute sin.
He’d finally unbuttoned his collar and loosened his dark tie, but that didn’t make him look any less dangerous.
If anything, the ruthless corporate predator was even more terrifying when he was “relaxing.” He leaned back, one long arm stretched over the top of the leather sofa right behind my head, his dark eyes casually scanning the room like a tiger watching sheep.
“You’re staring, Miss Fox,” Julian murmured, his deep voice carrying that low, dangerous rumble straight to my spine.
“I’m not staring,” I lied smoothly, adjusting my giant dark Chanel sunglasses and taking a dainty sip of my sparkly water.
“I’m assessing my asset.
You look expensive tonight, CEO.
Though you could smile a little.
You look like you’re plotting a hostile takeover of a country.” Julian’s lips twitched into that sharp, breathless smirk.
“Smiling is for people who need things from other people.
I don’t need anything.” Okay, mister cold-hearted billionaire, calm down.
My heart did a weird, traitorous little flutter in my chest anyway.
Why does he have to be so ridiculously built?!
Look at those shoulders.
He takes up the whole damn booth!
Before I could get lost in my own thoughts, the heavy silence of the lounge was shattered by the sharp clack-clack-clack of red bottoms against the hardwood floor.
“Julian Sterling.” A woman in her late fifties, practically dripping in diamonds, platinum hair pulled back into a bun so tight it looked extremely painful, marched right up to our table.
Her face was contoured so heavily she looked like a villain in a soap opera, and her eyes were burning with absolute venom.
She’s Victoria Vance.
Devon’s mother.
The undisputed viper of Manhattan society.
“Victoria,” Julian said coldly.
He didn’t stand up.
He didn’t even shift in his seat.
The temperature at our table instantly plunged to sub-zero.
“I heard about the boardroom stunt this afternoon,” Victoria hissed, her icy gaze dropping down to lock onto me.
“Devon came home in tears after that…
circus at the gala, and now I find out you’re parade-marching this ridiculous woman around the city, claiming she’s your long-lost adoptive mother from Monaco?” Oh, honey.
No.
I put down my glass.
I slowly tilted my giant sunglasses down to the tip of my nose, letting my platinum-silver wig catch the faint chandelier light.
“Julian, darling,” I rasped out in my thickest, most unbearable European accent, “who let the loud woman out of the museum?
Is there an exhibit escape I should be worried about?” Victoria’s jaw literally unhinged.
“Excuse me?!” “You are excused, sweetheart,” I said, waving a lace-gloved hand like I was brushing away stale smoke.
“Although I must say, your foundation is a bit dry for this lighting.
Are you drinking enough water?
Or is all your moisture going toward harboring a failed fortune-hunter for a son?” “You shameless, fraudulent little—!” Victoria took a furious step forward.
Clack!
Julian’s heavy glass of bourbon hit the marble table with a sharp, lethal snap.
He didn’t raise his voice, but the sheer, suffocating authority in his tone froze Victoria mid-sentence.
“Mind your tongue, Victoria,” Julian said quietly, his dark eyes fixing on her like twin blades.
“You are speaking to Lady Sterling.
If you say another word, I will short-sell the Vance Holding stock before the market opens tomorrow morning.” Victoria gasped, her face going pale beneath her heavy makeup.
But I wasn’t done yet.
I was on a roll.
“Also,” I added, leaning forward with a wicked, radiant smirk, “tell Devon that if he ever texts Chloe again, I will personally buy his apartment building, demolish it, and build a animal shelter for stray cats right on top of his ego.
Now trot along, dear.
My scotch is getting warm.” Victoria looked like she was about to have a full structural collapse.
She turned on her heel and stormed out of the lounge so fast her silk scarf flew behind her, accidentally knocking into a passing waiter who dropped an entire tray of crystal champagne flutes with a loud SHATTER!
The entire lounge went dead silent.
I casually pushed my dark glasses back up my nose and picked up my menu.
“Oops.” Julian slowly turned his head to look at me.
The icy, terrifying CEO mask was completely gone, replaced by a dark, intense look of pure, unadulterated amusement.
“You are completely unhinged,” he whispered, leaning into my space until his dark eyes were all I could see.
“You just drove the most feared woman in upper Manhattan to tears.” “She started it,” I muttered, my heart hammering against my ribs as his hand slid down the back of the leather sofa, his long fingers gently brushing against the exposed nape of my neck.
“And besides, she insulted my wig.” Julian let out a low, dark laugh that vibrated against my shoulder.
He signaled the bartender.
“Bring us a bottle of the ’52 Macallan.
Put it on my tab.” “Wait, how much is that bottle?” I whispered, leaning close enough that my forehead almost touched his sharp jaw.
“Twelve thousand dollars,” Julian replied smoothly, his eyes dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second, sending a wave of electric heat straight down my body.
Twelve.
Thousand.
Dollars.
“Make it two bottles,” I declared, looking straight into his eyes without flinching.
“I’m a growing girl, CEO.” Julian’s smirk broadened, dangerous and dark.
His long hand shifted down the back of the sofa, and his fingers closing around the base of my neck—not hurting me, but holding me in place with a heavy, possessive warmth that sent a shiver straight down my spine.
His dark eyes dropped to my lips before locking back onto mine.
“Two bottles,” Julian murmured, his thumb resting against the heavy beat of my pulse.
“And you’ll drink every drop, Miss Fox.
You’re turning out to be a very expensive investment.” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Bel_Rose Roxie asking Victoria Vance if her foundation was too dry for the lighting…
I am DECEASED!
(^o^) Victoria Vance thought she was going to ruin Lady Sterling, but she ended up losing an entire tray of champagne flutes and having her family stock threatened instead.
And Julian buying $24,000 worth of scotch just because Roxie asked for it?
The CEO’s wallet is officially open for business.