Chapter 3
Three years had passed.
In the private booths of Nocturne, Meridian's most exclusive club, the haze of cigarettes cloaked everything. The atmosphere was heavy with the sounds of boisterous male banter and the calculated, coaxing tones of female companions.
Head bowed, a drink tray in my hands, I walked into the most expensive VIP booth, wearing a low-cut cocktail dress a size too small that clung to me in all the wrong ways.
"Hey, new girl?" a man drawled from a shadowy corner. "What's with the limp?"
The comment, loud and sleazy, cut through the noise. All eyes in the booth swung toward me.
With my lame left leg, I had to walk slowly and carefully, resulting in an awkward, waddling gait.
"My apologies, sir," I said with a slight bow. "My name is Rena. I'm here with your drinks."
The Serena Shaw I once was had died that day at the birthday party.
All that remained was Rena, a woman who would sell her dignity for nothing more than money.
"Who cares about a limp?" a man leered, his eyes dropping. "Makes it more fun!"
A hand reached out to grope my thigh.
I flinched, poised to pull away, when a voice I would know in my bones cut through the noise from the center couch.
"Stop."
I froze, the glasses on my tray clinking sharply.
I didn't dare look up. That voice had haunted my nightmares for three long years.
It was Chase Wilder.
He was no longer that washed-up delinquent. Now he was a rising powerhouse in the city, a ruthless tycoon everyone addressed as Mr. Wilder.
A long, well-manicured hand reached over, took a glass from my tray, and gave it a slow swirl.
"Serena, the campus belle," he said. "Long time no see."
The booth fell silent.
The men who had been getting fresh exchanged looks. They were stunned that a mere limping hostess knew Chase Wilder.
I drew a sharp breath and fixed a professional smile on my face. "You must be mistaken, Mr. Wilder. I'm Rena. But for the right price, I can be whoever you want."
Chase's eyes went cold in an instant.
He slammed his glass onto the floor. Shards flew, one grazing my calf.
"Mistaken?" He rose and advanced on me, his presence so oppressive it stole my breath.
"Serena, where's that lofty pride now? And your esteemed professor father?" he sneered, his gaze sweeping over my cheap dress. "Now the Shaw family falls apart, and you're just open for business?"
His words should have felt like knives to my heart, but I was long past feeling anything.
My heart had already died, and the body was merely a shell.
"You flatter me, Mr. Wilder," I said, widening my counterfeit smile. "My father cast me out, but life goes on. If my presence offends you, I can have another hostess attend to you."
"I didn't say you could leave." Chase's hand closed around my wrist.
He gestured to the shattered glass and spilled wine at his feet. "If you're in this business, have some professionalism."
He pulled a thick stack of bills from his jacket.
"Open that bottle, get down on the floor and pour me a drink," he instructed, his gaze unwavering. "These 3,000 dollars are yours."
The room erupted in jeers and shouts.
"Mr. Wilder is generous!"
"Get down, gimp! That's 3 grand!"
My eyes moved from the field of jagged glass on the floor to Chase's merciless gaze.
Three steel pins were embedded in my left leg. To get down on the floor would be agony.
He was humiliating me.
This was his retaliation.
Punishment for being Henry Shaw's daughter. Punishment for having loved him so foolishly.
"Fine," I said.
I didn't hesitate. No trace of humiliation showed on my face.
I let my body fold, lowering myself heavily onto the bed of shards.
Blood instantly bloomed on my skirt, mingling with the spilled wine on the floor into an indistinguishable stain.
Chase's pupils contracted sharply, and his hand at his side clenched into a fist.
I didn't look at him.
Maintaining my smile, I picked up the bottle and poured his drink with a steady hand.
I lifted the glass. "Your drink, Mr. Wilder."
*****
That night, I limped out of the booth, each step a fresh jolt of pain.
I clutched the 3,000 dollars in my fist, the bills now stained with blood and wine.
In the back alley of the nightclub, I slumped against the wall, my hands trembling as I lit a cigarette.
The harsh smoke of cheap tobacco filled my lungs, dulling the pain in my knee, if only slightly.
Then a black Maybach rolled to a stop in front of me, silent as a shadow.
The tinted window hissed down, revealing Chase's sharp profile.
He stared at me from the darkness, an unlit cigar between his fingers, his expression inscrutable.
"Get in," he said.
It was a command, not a request.
I exhaled a stream of smoke, not moving. "Had enough fun yet, Mr. Wilder? I'm off duty. My time after hours comes at a premium."
The car door flew open. Chase got out, hauled me over his shoulder, and shoved me into the passenger seat.
"Serena, what act are you putting on now?" he snarled.
He started the engine, floored the accelerator, and the Maybach shot into the night.