The Midnight Club

CHAPTER ONE - Have A Wonderful Night Miss De Roux

THE CLIENT

Dread settled in my gut the moment the car stopped. This was a mistake.

The building outside was nondescript, indistinguishable from the others that framed the dark street. The windows were bricked over, and a thin layer of grime covered the walls. Not a single light seeped out from within.

It looked abandoned. But, I supposed, that was the point. It could very well be the location of a secret club for the most exclusive echelon of the elite.

Or the hideout of a serial killer.

This was a monumental mistake.

Before I could order the driver to take me home, my door swung open. The driver waited outside. He was a broad, towering figure, clad in a black suit. His pale face looked skeletal in the darkness, his har shaved so low that his head looked like a skull. He stared pointedly away from me, expression schooled to blankness.

I hadn't even noticed him get out of the car.

My hands tightened around the business card that brought me here: 'The Midnight Club' in gold cursive on one side, a phone number on the other. Three months ago, Avani Khatri— oil tycoon, second richest woman in the world, and one of the two people on the planet I actually respected—slid it across my desk.

Correction: I used to respect her. No respectable woman would use this service. No respectable woman would recommend this to a colleague.

This was a mistake.

I should have thrown the card away. After I realised what it was, I would have thrown the card away but—

The driver didn't move; a statue, oblivious to the fact that I was still in the car.

Hesitating.

The thought made me scoff. Hesitating. Alexandria De Roux did not hesitate.

I stepped outside.

A gust of icy air hit my skin, ruffling the silk of my dress.

There were no streetlights along the pavement. Above, the sky was a cloudy abyss, and the night clung to the buildings like a coat. The only source of light spilled out from the car's interior.

The driver shut the door, plunging us into darkness.

I was mentally recalling krav maga manoeuvres when I heard his footsteps moving away from me. A moment later, soft golden light poured out onto the street. He stood at the top of a set of stone steps, holding open the door of the building.

I was both relived and disappointed—I was trained in five martial arts, if he'd attacked me, he'd be dead.

I climbed the steps.

Within was a medium-sized room with no doors. At one end was a single gold elevator. But it was the room's design that made me tense. The carpet was lush and crimson, and the walls were padded, covered in red upholstery. It reminded me of a school trip from a decade ago. A human heart exhibit at a museum in Paris.

The driver shut the door and I suppressed a flinch.

He crossed the room and summoned the elevator. It opened immediately. My lungs shrivelled.

"I'll take the stairs," I said.

The driver spoke for the first time since he collected me. His voice was gravelly, "I'm afraid there are no stairs ma'am."

The inside of the elevator was narrow, barely larger than a cupboard. My fingers tightened around the card.

This whole thing was a mistake; I should never have come. It was impulsive and idiotic.