Chapter One — Enter the Lion's Den
Rain was falling like it was trying to drown the city.
It slid in sheets down the grimy windows of the cab Eden Blake sat in, blurring the world outside into watercolor shadows. Neon signs flickered through the downpour, painting her face in washes of red and electric blue. Her fingers tapped against her thigh — not from nerves, she told herself, but adrenaline. Anticipation. Purpose.
The driver grunted as they turned a corner. "You sure this is the place?"
Eden looked up. Across the street stood a sleek, unmarked building sandwiched between a closed bookstore and a boarded-up diner. It was all black glass and smooth steel, understated to the point of invisibility — except for one thing.
A sign above the door glowed faintly in the rain: EDENFALL.
She gave the driver a tight nod and handed over a twenty. "Keep the change."
He watched her through the rearview like he wanted to say something else, then thought better of it. The cab pulled away, tires hissing on wet pavement.
Alone now, Eden stood at the curb, pulling up the hood of her jacket. Rain soaked through her jeans, made her boots slick, but she didn't move. Not yet.
A week ago, Riley Morgan—her roommate, best friend, the only person who really understood her—walked through those doors and never came back out. No texts. No calls. Just... vanished.
The police didn't care. "No signs of foul play," they said. "She's probably partying or took off."
Eden knew better.
She took a breath, crossed the street, and stepped into the lion's den.
---
Inside, Edenfall was not what she expected.
It looked like a lounge from a billionaire's fever dream. Deep red velvet walls, warm golden lighting, and sleek, minimal furniture. The air smelled of sandalwood, smoke, and something darker underneath — like musk and secrets. A low hum of conversation filled the space, punctuated by the clink of glass and the occasional soft laugh.
Everyone was dressed to the nines. Men in tailored suits. Women in cocktail dresses that clung like second skin. Not a single casual soul in sight.
Eden tugged at the hem of her jacket. She felt like a lamb in a den of wolves.
A woman stood behind a sleek black podium near the entrance. Platinum hair pulled into a tight bun, blood-red lips, and a black choker around her throat. Her eyes scanned Eden with sharp disapproval.
"Name?" she asked.
Eden squared her shoulders. "Eden Blake."
"No reservation."
"No."
The woman's lip curled. "This is a members-only lounge."
"I'm not staying. Just one drink."
There was a long silence. Then, with a dismissive gesture, the woman nodded toward the bar. "One drink. Do not stray. And if anyone asks, you're waiting for someone."
"I am," Eden said quietly. "I just don't know if they're still alive."
---
From the second-floor mezzanine, Damian Voss watched her enter.
He noticed everything.
The way she scanned the room with purpose, not wonder. The way her hand hovered near her jacket pocket — where a phone or maybe a recorder might be hidden. Her clothes were cheap, soaked, but she didn't seem cold. Didn't fidget. She was sharp. Not a first-timer. But not one of his.
"She's not on the list," came a voice in his earpiece. Vanya — floor control, sharp as a whip.
"I know," Damian said, sipping dark bourbon from a crystal glass. "I'm watching her."
"Want me to escort her out?"
"No. Let's see what she does."
"She's not dressed for downstairs."
"She's not going downstairs."
Not yet.
---
Eden sat at the bar, avoiding the urge to check her phone. It was pointless — no reception in here, obviously. She ordered a whiskey neat. No garnish, no bullshit.
The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn't question it.
She sipped. Let it burn.
Riley's last message played over and over in her head:
"I found something. It's big. If I don't come home tonight, check the place called Edenfall."
Then nothing.
Eden scanned the room again. No sign of her. No familiar faces. But then she saw it — a heavyset man in a charcoal suit exiting a back hallway, white shirt collar stained with what looked suspiciously like blood. He didn't look alarmed. Didn't rush.
Just adjusted his cuffs and whispered something to a passing waitress.
Eden's eyes narrowed. That hallway... that had to lead somewhere deeper. Somewhere people like Riley might vanish.
She stood.
A voice stopped her.
"You're not really here for a drink."
It was deep, rich, and threaded with something more dangerous than flirtation.
She turned.
He was tall. Taller than anyone had a right to be. Dark hair, short on the sides, slightly messy up top. A black tailored jacket over a charcoal shirt, open at the collar. Tattoos curled up from his wrist to the edge of his sleeve. His face was carved — high cheekbones, strong jaw, shadowed eyes that pinned her like a hawk eyeing prey.
He didn't smile.
"You're Damian," she said.
His brow lifted slightly. "And you're Eden Blake. Bartender. Journalism student. No membership. No appointment."
She blinked. "You did a background check?"
"I do my homework."
"So you know why I'm here."
"I know you're lying," he said smoothly, stepping closer. "You're pretending you stumbled in here out of curiosity. But your eyes are tracking exits. Your hand hasn't left your pocket in five minutes. That tells me you're either recording or reaching for something that makes you feel safe."
She didn't answer.
His voice dropped. "Neither works here."
Eden stared up at him. "I'm looking for my friend. Riley Morgan. She came in here. I have the timestamp from the security feed at the building across the street."
Damian's expression didn't change. "We don't have patrons by that name."
"She never left."
"That's not my problem."
Her jaw tightened. "Then make it your problem."
Silence stretched.
Then he leaned in, breath brushing her ear. "You have no idea what kind of fire you're playing with, little red."
"Try me."
---
He led her upstairs, past velvet curtains and guarded doors. The second floor was quieter, more exclusive. Two guards eyed her but let them pass.
Damian opened a door to a private room — leather furniture, soft lighting, thick curtains. A place for business. Or seduction. Or worse.
He gestured for her to sit. She didn't.
"I don't want to play games," she said.
He poured her another whiskey, this one far more expensive. "Good. Because the people who play games in this place usually lose."
"Where's the hallway downstairs lead?"
"To places you don't belong."
"Try me again."
Damian stared at her.
He saw something behind her stubbornness. Not recklessness. Guilt.
"You think she's dead," he said quietly.
Eden flinched.
"I think something happened," she admitted. "And I think if you're not the one who did it, you know who did."
He didn't answer. Instead, he walked to a panel on the wall and pressed a button.
A screen lit up — grainy black-and-white footage. A hallway. People coming and going. He fast-forwarded. Paused.
Riley.
Walking with someone tall. Hooded. Face obscured. Down the hall.
Never returning.
"I don't show this to guests," Damian said. "I shouldn't be showing it to you."
"Then why are you?"
He turned to her.
"Because you didn't run when you should've."
---
The air between them thickened. Not quite trust. Not quite attraction. But something hot and sharp and rising.
She looked at him — at the tension in his jaw, the weight in his eyes.
"You're going to help me," she said, not a question.
He smirked.
"No. But I'm going to keep you alive while you try."