Page 130 of His Fury

“Iamon the list,” he cut in, smiling like I was the punchline to his joke. “McCabe said I could stop by. He’ll want to know I’m here.”

“I’m sure he will.” I didn’t smile. “But this floor is by invitation only. And unless your name’s printed and placed in my hand, you’re not going up.”

He leaned closer. “You his assistant? Or his new plaything?”

My fingers itched, but I didn’t move. “Neither.I’mthe one who decides if you stay or go.”

That got his attention. He blinked. Straightened. He looked at me again, like he was seeing me clearly for the first time.

“I’ll pass along your name, though, to Zayn, tell him you were left off the list,” I said. “What is it? Your name?”

He didn’t answer. He left. Smart man.

I exhaled slowly, waited to ensure he was leaving, then turned back to the bouncer. “Tell front security if he returns, he doesn’t get past the coat check.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I moved on, deciding to walk the perimeter like a general checking her lines. And I couldn’t help it—I expected to see one of them everywhere I looked. Rye with his sharp eyes. Zayn in the shadows, watching everything.

But they were ghosts tonight. And I was alone.

This was what I’d wanted, wasn’t it? To be trusted. To prove I wasn’t some delicate thing to be tucked away in his hidden house. That I could hold my own in his world.

And I was.

But even in heels and designer black, tablet in hand, and power in my voice—I couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight wasn’t about proving anything.

It was about lasting through it.

I circled the floor again, less of a walk-through now and more of a ritual. It was a way to keep moving, stay alert, and avoid overthinking the absence of Zayn or Rye. I checked on the staff and the caterers, who were finally packing up; the food had been sent out, the cake—the ugliest one I’d ever seen—was cut, and the caterers were eager to leave. I checked in with Jayden, who maintained firm control downstairs and with security.

We worked well together.

I passed the DJ booth—thumbs-up. The bar was still slammed but under control—James was the overlord of his domain, and he was damn good at it. I paused long enough to tell him I had fixed the staff shortage in section two. He flashed me a grateful grin and wiped the sweat from his brow.

I realized that this was just another night, just another event for all of them. I had never really experienced one like this before, but the pieces were all the same. While each event had its own challenges, it was a relief to know that I could handle this. It helped that the staff was experienced.

So why did the air feel…thicker? Not dangerous. Not yet. But like a storm was waiting in the wings.

A man in a gray button-down moved past me too quickly, brushing my arm. I turned—just in time to see him disappear into the crowd, melting into a group of men in tailored suits I didn’t recognize.

Their eyes were scanning, not admiring. Clocking exits. Taking stock.

And I knew what that looked like. I’d spent enough time with Zayn to recognize what didn’t belong.

“Jayden,” I said softly into my comm. “I’ve got eyes on four men in suits, drinks barely touched, walking the floor to the south booths. See them?”

“I’m downstairs,” he replied, all trace of casual gone. “I’m sending Mikhail up. I’ll tell the guys to follow them.”

I continued walking until I got to the corridor behind the bar, checking supply and staff notes. I didn’t get far before a quiet voice stopped me.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

I turned fast.

It was Mikhail—one of Zayn’s guys, part of the secondary security team, the one Jayden had sent up. I hadn’t even heard him approach. He stepped out of the shadowed hallway as his eyes scanned the club behind me.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

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