Chapter 5 Touche

The bass inside Velour was hitting right at chest height, vibrating straight through the floorboards and rattling the ice in Zavia’s glass of grey goose martini.

Sarah, draped in a glittering emerald mini dress that defied every known law of gravity and corporate dress codes, threw her head back and laughed. "I am telling you, Zavi, you need to live on the edge just a little bit! You look like you’re auditing the DJ’s playlist."

"I am merely observing," Zavia shouted over the thumping techno beats, checking her wristwatch for the fourth time in five minutes. 10:14 PM.

Sarah rolled her eyes, taking a sharp sip of her tequila sunrise.

"Stop looking at your watch. It’s pathetic. And more importantly, why on earth did you text Tommy to meet us here? You know he has the personality of a damp piece of cardboard."

"He sent me flowers today," Zavia defended, though her voice lacked conviction.

She smoothed down the front of her sleek, conservative black jumpsuit, feeling entirely too dressed for a boardroom compared to Sarah’s glamorous nightlife aesthetic.

"He’s trying. And we agreed to salvage our Friday night."

"He sent you grocery-store guilt-magnets because he acted like a toddler this morning,"

Sarah muttered, shaking her head.

"If my boyfriend spoke to me the way Tommy speaks to you, I wouldn't be salvaging the night, I'd be salvaging his belongings off the balcony."

Zavia opened her mouth to argue, but the words died on her tongue. Her gaze drifted across the crowded, dimly lit VIP lounge, locking onto a familiar flash of dark curls and a tailored charcoal blazer sitting in a plush leather booth across the room.

Her stomach plummeted straight into her kitten heels.

No. Absolutely not.

There were thousands of bars in the city. What were the statistical odds that Nicholas Wade—billionaire, majority stakeholder, and the man who had gleefully incinerated her forty-page M&A model twelve hours ago—would be sitting fifty feet away from her?

"Oh, sweet mother of tax exemptions," Sarah gasped, her eyes suddenly widening as she tracked Zavia’s horrified stare.

She gripped Zavia’s forearm, her voice dropping to an awestruck whisper.

"Who is that? Because he looks like he was sculpted by Michelangelo specifically to ruin women's lives."

"That," Zavia hissed, her jaw locking so tight her back teeth ached, "is my Managing Director, Nicholas Wade. And he is a menace."

"A menace?"

Sarah’s eyes sparkled with mischievous delight. "Honey, he’s a masterpiece. Look at those shoulders. Look at the way he’s holding that scotch like he owns the entire building—which, knowing your company, he probably does."

Before Zavia could stop her, Sarah smoothed down her dress and flashed a brilliant, high-voltage smile.

"Watch and learn, Zavi. I'm going to go find out if he's single or if he just likes breaking junior analysts' hearts."

"Sarah, wait, no—do not—" Zavia whispered frantically, but it was too late.

Sarah had already drifted across the floor, sliding effortlessly into the empty spot beside Nicholas’ booth with a smooth, flirtatious laugh.

Zavia watched from afar, mortified, her fingers tapping a furious, erratic rhythm against the marble cocktail table.

Tap, tap, tap.

Why was he here? Why did he look so infuriatingly relaxed? Why did he have to ruin her office life and her Friday night escape?

Across the room, Sarah leaned in, murmuring something witty that made Nicholas turn his head.

Nicholas listened, a lazy, charming smile playing at the corners of his lips as he engaged effortlessly with Sarah.

He looked every bit the high-society playboy—until his dark eyes casually drifted past Sarah’s shoulder and locked onto the edge of the bar.

Directly onto Zavia.

She froze, caught red-handed staring, her foot still tapping a manicured stiletto against the floorboards.

Nicholas’s smile deepened into something slow, dangerous, and utterly captivating. He said something to Sarah that made her laugh, politely excused himself, and began cutting a path straight across the crowded lounge through the pulsing strobe lights.

Zavia’s breath hitched. She instinctively glanced down at her watch again—10:22 PM. Tommy was twenty-two minutes late. And her nightmare of a boss was currently walking directly toward her table.

"Zavia Thorpe," Nicholas’s rich, velvety baritone cut cleanly through the bass as he slid into the booth opposite her, resting his elbows casually on the table.

"Out in the wild, past nine o'clock on a Friday night? Let me guess—is this on your color-coded master schedule, or did the world finally end?"

Zavia squared her shoulders, forcing her chin up to mask the sudden, wild fluttering in her chest.

"Some of us actually know how to balance a demanding career with a social life, Mr. Wade. Unlike some people who apparently treat investment banking like an extension of a nightclub."

Nicholas let out a rich, genuine laugh, his dark eyes glittering with amusement. He didn't look offended in the slightest; if anything, he looked like a cat who had just discovered the cream was self-serve.

"Touche," Nicholas murmured, leaning in just a fraction closer, lowering his voice so it was meant for her ears alone.

He glanced down briefly at her foot, which was still tapping a nervous, rhythmic beat against the floor.

"Though your foot tells me a completely different story. You're tapping out Morse code, Zavia. Are you waiting for a rescue... or are you just terrified that I'm going to find another decimal error in your spreadsheet?"