Page 36 of Taking What's Mine

My breath hitches at hearing that name aloud, but Lincoln responds smoothly. “Thank you. We’re looking forward to tonight.”

She smiles a bit too knowingly, parting the rope to let us pass. As we head inside, the pounding music grows louder, colors flash across the dance floor, and the familiar swirl of heat and neon washes over us. My hand tightens on Lincoln’s jacket, the memory of our steamy kiss dancing along the edges of my mind.

Whatever happens in the next few hours—whatever we discover about Rolfe, or what secrets he might be hiding—I know one thing for sure. That kiss was real in a way I never anticipated. And as we merge into the crowd, my thoughts remain locked on Lincoln, on the taste of his lips, and on the unspoken promise that maybe this is just the beginning.

We’re here for a mission, yes. But as I glance up into his eyes, catching the lingering trace of desire there, I realize that what we share is far from pretend. And that, above all else, might be the most dangerous truth of all.

Chapter 17

Lincoln

I can tell something’s off the moment we’re ushered into the private section of Club Greed. The music here is softer than the pounding bass in the main area—more of a sultry lounge vibe than a full-blown rave. I was half expecting to walk into something wild and raucous, but instead, the atmosphere is strangely subdued. Soft pink and gold lights illuminate couples dancing in a mini-ballroom area off to the right, and a cluster of plush white couches lines the left wall, where people drape themselves, and are either whispering or making out.

A hostess in a sleek black dress greets us, offering us complimentary champagne flutes. Her smile is polished, but her eyes flick across me and Isabel with a hint of curiosity. Before either of us can ask a question, she guides us deeper into the room, murmuring, “Enjoy your evening,” then disappears back to the entrance.

I cast a quick glance at Isabel, who’s got her hand hooked around my arm. Her expression is poised, but I sense her nerves in the light tremor of her fingers. The memory of our kiss—of how we practiced being husband and wife in a way that felt anything but pretend—burns fresh in my mind. It stokes a warm coil of tension at the base of my spine, but I force myself to focus on the mission.

We weave past the slow-dancing couples, the gentle rhythm of a low-tempo track filling the air. The dancers move in unhurried circles, bodies pressed close in a way that’s definitely more than friendly. A few of them glance our way, flashing smiles or winks as we pass. The entire room seems to hum with a current of possibility, but I’m acutely aware we’re here for one reason: to find leads on Morris Rolfe.

Isabel leans in toward me, her voice pitched low. “So much for a big, exclusive party. It feels more like… a meetup?”

I nod, scanning the space for familiar faces. “Yeah. Let’s ask around. See if anyone knows where Morris is.”

She exhales slowly, and we exchange a brief look of determination. Then I guide her by the waist to the far side of the mini-ballroom. There’s a small group of people chatting—two men and a woman, all dressed in high-end evening wear that probably costs as much as my entire monthly paycheck. I force a relaxed smile, slipping into character as the confident husband just out for a sultry good time.

But the moment we approach, one of the men shakes his head apologetically. “I’m sorry, we haven’t seen Morris. He and Devereaux sometimes skip these smaller meets.” He sips from his glass, shrugging. “This is more like a… how would I put it… an introduction night. See who’s interested in the bigger events.”

Isabel stiffens beside me, but she plasters on a practiced smile, laying a gentle hand on the man’s arm. “So this is just a… meet-and-greet? Like a mixer?”

“Exactly,” he confirms, returning her smile with a fondness that prickles my protective instincts. “No Morris. He only comes for the real parties.” He gestures to the couples dancing. “Tonight’s more about feeling things out, seeing if people mesh.”

I bite back the irritation rising in my gut. If Morris isn’t even here, what the hell are we supposed to learn tonight? I toss a glance at Isabel, who’s keeping her composure, though I can practically sense the disappointment rolling off her.

We excuse ourselves politely, drifting to the edge of the dance floor, trying to figure out our next move. The slow, pulsing music, the clink of champagne glasses, the hush of private conversations—it’s all a heady mix, but none of it leads us to Rolfe.

Just as I’m about to suggest we try another group, a couple materializes from the far side of the couches. They’re dressed to the nines: the man in a tailored navy suit, the woman in a shimmering gold gown that plunges low at the neckline. They’re both attractive in that polished, upper-echelon kind of way, and they approach us with curious smiles.

“You two look new,” the woman says, crossing her arms under her chest, her posture clearly confident. The man offers an easy grin, eyes flicking between me and Isabel like he’s sizing us up.

I slip an arm around Isabel’s waist, pulling her closer. “Yeah, newish,” I say, letting a hint of a playful drawl creep into my tone. “We’re exploring the lifestyle… seeing what it’s all about.”

Isabel nods in agreement, her cheek brushing my shoulder as she nestles in. The effect is immediate—those two sets of eyes widen with keen interest.

The woman extends a hand, her voice taking on a sultry warmth. “I’m Vera, and this is Trey. So… are you two swingers, or just curious?”

There it is—the question we knew might come, but still feels a little jarring to hear out loud. Isabel shifts slightly, but her composure is impressive. She slides a look my way, batting her lashes in a show of wifely affection. “We’re more of the watching type,” she says, letting her lips curl in a slow smile, “but we’re keeping an open mind.”

A part of me admires how smoothly she slips into the role. We’ve prepared for scenarios like this—scenarios that require us to adopt a persona that lets us blend into the crowd without raising suspicion. Still, hearing Isabel imply that we’re watchers in the scene sends a flicker of need through my veins, remembering just how close we’ve gotten these past few nights.

Trey chuckles. “Watching can be fun.” He slides a glance at Vera, who nods with an amused smirk. “So, you came to see if Morris was here?”

My stomach clenches. Bingo. “We heard he might show,” I say, carefully nonchalant. “We’re… what’s the word? Big admirers. We’ve heard he throws the best parties.”

Vera’s face lights up with an indulgent smile. “Oh, he does. Morris is a close friend of ours.” Her eyes glimmer, pride evident. “But he’s not in town tonight—must be on business.”

Isabel arches a brow, pitching her voice just loud enough to be heard over the music. “You two are that close with him?”

Trey gives a small shrug, sipping his champagne. “We’ve known him a few years. Helped him organize a couple of private gatherings. He’s a busy man, but we catch him when we can.”

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