The city blurred past in streaks of amber and shadow as Claire rode home, the red scooter humming beneath her like a restless heartbeat. The cold air bit at her cheeks, but she barely felt it. Not after what she'd seen. Not after him.
Aurelien D'Ardenne.
She whispered the name in her mind like a secret prayer, like a curse she couldn't shake.
————
The neon sign buzzed through the glass as Claire punched out, the timeclock's click dissolving into the electric hum of the night.
Three nights since the alley. Three nights of staring at her ceiling, replaying silver hair and that name—Aurelien D'Ardenne—like a mantra stuck between her ribs.
Her red scooter waited by the curb, chrome gleaming under streetlights. She straddled it, helmet forgotten, letting the night air whip through her hair as she gunned the engine.She longed to see him.
Nocturne & Nectar—the only clue he'd given. Maybe he'd be there. Maybe not. But it was the only place to start looking.
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Her closet vomited half its contents onto the bed before she settled on black—a sleeveless turtleneck that showed her collarbone, leather pants that made her feel armored. Lipstick the color of fresh blood.The tube left a smudge on her thumb when she twisted it open—a mistake she'd made since high school. "Pathetic," she muttered to the mirror, rubbing at the smudged eyeliner. When was the last time she'd dressed to impress? College? Before Mom got sick?
The scooter purred through downtown, past bars spilling laughter onto sidewalks, until she reached a narrow street where the asphalt glittered like wet onyx.
There it was: a black door framed by wrought-iron vines, the club's name etched in blood-red across the glass.
Nocturne & Nectar.
The door opened to a wall of sound. Strobe lights cut through cigar smoke, illuminating fragments of moving bodies—a raised glass here, a tossed head of hair there. The bassline vibrated in Claire's molars as she pushed through the crowd, her eyes scanning for silver. Sweat and perfume clung to the air, mixing with the tang of spilled liquor.
Behind the bar, a lean bartender with an artful undercut paused mid-polish, giving her an appraising once-over before breaking into a welcoming smile. "First time here?"
Claire nodded. "Yeah." Her eyes kept scanning the crowd.A man with a serpent tattoo coiling up his neck stared back, his tongue flicking over gold-capped teeth.
The bartender slid a napkin toward her. "Then you'll need a drink to match the night. What's your poison?"
Claire's tongue pressed against her palate for a fractured second before the words escaped:
"Red...Requiem."
The bartender's fingers paused mid-wipe on a glass. His eyes narrowed slightly—not in alarm, but in quiet reassessment. "You sure?"
She held his stare. "Yes."
For a beat, he studied her. Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared through a staff door.
Claire fidgeted with her coaster, hyper-aware of the music, the bodies, the way her heartbeat felt too loud in her own ears. Two minutes later, the bartender returned. Leaned in close enough that she caught the scent of bourbon. "Boss wants a word," he murmured, nodding toward a curtained hallway. "VIP lounge."
Claire's heart raced. The boss? Is it really him?
She gave a nod and followed the bartender toward the VIP lounge. With quick fingers, she adjusted the hem of her black sleeveless turtleneck, smoothing invisible wrinkles—what should i say when i see him?
Each step down the narrow hallway echoed too loudly, her boots clicking against marble like warning shots. The bass from the main floor faded behind the thick velvet curtains, replaced by the hush of exclusivity. Claire's palms were slick. She wiped them on her leather pants, twice, as if erasing uncertainty. Don't freeze. Just breathe.
The door swung open to reveal a lounge drowned in sapphire light. At its center, a man lounged on a white leather sofa, one gold-tipped shoe propped on the coffee table. Sun-kissed curls. A smile like an unsheathed knife.
Glassy blue eyes glinted under the lights.
Not silver hair. Not him.
Disappointment curdled in Claire's throat.
It tasted of bile and the ghost of cheap gin.
"Who are you?" Her voice cracked. "Why did you call me here?"
The man tilted his head, expression unreadable. "Easy." He swirled his drink, the ice clinking lazily. "Lysander." A pause. "Just a conversation."
The air carried expensive cologne.
"What about?" Claire tilted her head.
"Who told you to order a Red Requiem?" Lysander's voice was velvet wrapped around steel.
Claire's throat tightened. Was Lysander his ally—or enemy? But Aurelien had mentioned this place...
The silence stretched three breaths too long before she forced out the name:
"Aurelien... D'Ardenne."
Lysander's glass froze mid-sip. A drop of condensation slid down the side like a fleeing tear.
The air turned to ice. Then Lysander set down his drink with exaggerated care. "Interesting." His smile didn't reach those glacial eyes. "How does a girl like you know that name?"