The metallic click of the deadbolt echoed like a gunshot through the opulent silence of the private lounge.

Evelyn's heart slammed against her ribs. Every cautionary tale she had ever heard about Adrian Vale—the untouchable shadow pulling strings across the New York underground—rushed into her mind. Men like him didn’t lock doors in women’s bathrooms to offer comfort. They locked doors when they didn’t want witnesses, when business was personal, or when a mess needed cleaning up.

She pressed her back against the cool marble sink, her hands clutching the edges of the porcelain.

“Mr. Vale,” she managed to say, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to steady it. “I’m sorry I stumbled in here. I’ll pay for whatever damage—I can leave through that service door. You won’t even know I was here.”

Adrian didn’t move.

He stood tall, a towering silhouette against the cream-and-gold aesthetic of the lounge. His expression was completely unreadable, a mask of carved granite sharpened by intelligence and absolute power. Slowly, deliberately, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a pristine white linen handkerchief, and extended it toward her.

Evelyn stared at the cloth. She didn’t take it.

“You’re bleeding,” Adrian said. His voice was low, deep, and sounded like gravel rolling over glass.

Evelyn blinked, confused, looking down at herself. “What?”

“Your palm,” Adrian motioned slightly with his chin. “When you dropped the glasses out there. A shard of crystal cut deep into your skin. You’re staining your own dress.”

Evelyn looked down. Sure enough, mixed with the dark red smear of cranberry juice across her emerald-green silk was a bright, fresh streak of crimson dripping from the base of her right thumb. She hadn't even felt it. The humiliation of Derek’s bet had completely numbed her nervous system.

“It’s nothing,” Evelyn whispered, pulling her hand away and hiding it behind her back.

Adrian took two slow, measured steps closer. He was entirely within her personal space now, close enough for her to catch the faint scent of sandalwood, expensive bourbon, and ozone.

“In my club,” Adrian said quietly, his dark eyes locking onto hers with terrifying intensity, “nothing is ever nothing. Especially when someone comes into my private office corridor crying over a piece of trash like Derek Caldwell.”

Evelyn froze. “You heard them?”

“Everyone in the VIP mezzanine heard them,” Adrian replied flatly. “Derek is an idiot who thinks his father’s shipping contracts give him immunity in Manhattan. He’s loud, he’s sloppy, and apparently, he’s remarkably cruel.”

Adrian reached out—not with aggression, but with surprising, absolute certainty—and gently caught her uninjured wrist. Before she could protest, he lifted her hand, examining the jagged cut across her palm.

“Sit down,” he commanded softly.

“I can stand—”