The air inside Elysium Lounge was thick with wealth, exclusivity, and the unspoken power that pulsed through its dark marble walls. Tucked away in the heart of Manhattan, this wasn't just any private club—it was a sanctuary for the elite. Gold-accented chandeliers dripped from the high ceilings, casting amber light across velvet chairs and polished obsidian floors. Jazz music hummed low in the background, seductive and sharp like expensive perfume.
But none of that glamour touched Anastasia.
She sat rigidly in one of the lounge's VIP chambers, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. She was tired—tired of fighting, tired of losing. The deep emerald walls, the hand-painted Italian art, even the private bar gleaming with rare liquor behind her… none of it mattered anymore.
Across from her, Dante sat in a tailored black suit, the kind that molded to his frame like second skin. He looked completely at ease, lounging on the velvet sofa as if he owned the world—and in some ways, he did.
