Connection | 18+

Chapter Sixteen

ETHAN:

   The club is suffocating.

   Not from the heat or the stench of alcohol and sweat, but from the sheer pointlessness of it all.

   Marco sits across from me, his voice a dull hum in the background. He’s been droning on about some deal—an exchange of favors, a negotiation laced with veiled threats—but my patience is wearing thin.

   Owens is beside me, leaning back in his seat with a glass of whiskey in hand, eyes locked onto Marco like a wolf waiting for an excuse to bare his teeth. He’s listening, actually listening, but I can’t bring myself to care enough to do the same.

   I let my gaze drift over the room instead. The flashing lights, the bodies moving in sync with the bass, the expensive liquor flowing like water. This place isn’t meant for people like me—it’s meant for men who pretend to be powerful, flashing wealth like it makes them untouchable.

   But wealth doesn’t make you untouchable. Fear does.

   And that’s exactly why Marco is here, sitting across from me, his confidence reeking of desperation. He needs me. And I should be relishing in that fact, reminding him of the balance of power. But I don’t.

   Because my attention keeps shifting.

   To the entrance.

   To the people filtering in, their faces blending together into a blur of insignificance.

   It’s irritating. I don’t get distracted. I don’t let my focus wander during meetings. But my patience is already razor-thin, and I don’t have the energy to force myself into interest.

   Until she walks in.

   Olivia.

   The moment she steps through the entrance, it’s like the rest of the club fades.

   My fingers tighten around my glass, and I barely register the way my pulse kicks up as my eyes drag over her.

   She looks like she belongs here. Like she’s a part of the chaos, thriving in it. The dim, flashing lights catch the curve of her smirk, the gleam in her eye as she slides into the crowd like she’s done it a thousand times before.

   She probably has.

   I watch as she moves toward a group—her group. I don’t know their names, don’t care to. But I recognize the way they close in around her, the way she fits into them seamlessly. Their presence is rough, chaotic, a mess of tattoos and sharp grins that carry the promise of bad decisions.

   And I hate that it suits her.

   I force myself to look away, dragging my attention back to Marco, who is still talking.

   I should focus.

   I should give a fuck about whatever deal he’s trying to spin. He is a reputable man after all.

   But my gaze betrays me, snapping back to her before I can stop it.

   She’s already laughing, settling into her element. One of the men beside her—some asshole—pulls her into his side like it’s second nature, his arm slung over her shoulders, his grip too familiar. This is the first time I'm seeing him but I already hate him.

   I roll my wrist, forcing my grip to loosen around the glass before it shatters.

   Then I exhale, leaning back in my seat, feigning boredom as I let my gaze slip away from her again.