The VIP section of the Crimson Eden Noire wasn't a room.
It was a cathedral of sin purpose-built for people who'd forgotten what money even tasted like.
Three crescent tiers of black leather booths rising like dark altars around a private dance floor nobody was using—because the people in this room didn't dance.
They held court.
Obsidian tables veined with pulsing crimson crystal caught the bass bleeding through the walls and threw it back in slow, hypnotic throbs. The bar ran the entire back wall—four bartenders moving like synchronized assassins, paid so much they never held eye contact longer than two seconds and never asked your name.
Ceiling mirrored, naturally, fracturing crimson light into a thousand sharp, decadent shards that turned every movement into a fever dream painted by someone with exquisite taste and zero conscience.
Emily had outdone herself.
