The Uber dropped her off a block away from The Sanctuary. The rain had started again, a cold, miserable drizzle that soaked through her hoodie in seconds.
She walked toward the entrance. The club was glowing, a beacon of warmth and exclusivity in the dark city.
Glyn Clemons was currently inside, handing his keys to a valet with the exaggerated swagger of a man who believed he owned the world.
"Keep it close," Glyn told the valet. "I might need to leave early."
Inside, Manager Franks was ushering them toward the private elevator. "Mr. Clemons! Welcome to the Penthouse. A surprise upgrade, courtesy of management."
Lydia Clemons gasped, her hand flying to her pearl necklace. "Penthouse? I thought we booked the Gold Room."
"Of course," Glyn interrupted, puffing out his chest. "My reputation precedes me. They know who we are."
Belle flipped her hair. "Obviously. It's probably because of my TikTok followers. Blessed."
They disappeared into the elevator, high on their own supply of delusion.
Outside, Dylan approached the velvet rope.
A young man in a sharp suit-the new Concierge-stepped in front of her. He looked at her wet hoodie, her muddy combat boots, and the duffel bag slung over her shoulder.
"Members only," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Or strict dress code for guests."
Dylan wiped rain from her eyelashes. "I'm meeting the Clemons party. They're in the Penthouse."
The Concierge laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. "The VIPs in the Penthouse? I doubt it. Look at you."
He gestured to her boots. "No work boots. No hoodies. No baggage."
Dylan sighed. She was tired. "Call Manager Franks."
"Mr. Franks is busy with actual important people," the Concierge sneered. "I'm not disturbing him for a delivery girl."
Dylan's hand twitched. She could hack the door system. She could override the lock with her phone in ten seconds. But that would trigger a security alert. Chet would call. It would be a mess.
"Fine," she said, her voice steady. "Tell them Dylan is here."
The Concierge rolled his eyes but picked up the phone. He dialed the Penthouse.
Upstairs, Glyn answered. He was already chewing on a piece of wagyu beef.
"Who?" Glyn barked. "Dylan? Tell her to wait outside. We're eating."
He hung up. "The ungrateful brat is here."
Belle giggled, sipping champagne. "In those rags? She'll ruin the aesthetic. Don't let her up yet."
The Concierge hung up the phone and turned back to Dylan with a smug smile. "They said wait outside."
Dylan's eyes darkened. "Outside?"
"Yes. Move along. You're blocking the entrance for paying customers."
He stepped back, crossing his arms.
Dylan stepped back to the curb. She leaned against the cold stone pillar of the entrance. The rain fell harder, plastering her hair to her skull. She stood there, stoic, watching the warm, golden glow of the windows above. This wasn't submission; it was data collection. She needed to see them in their natural habitat, to gauge their arrogance. More importantly, she needed her grandfather to see this, to see how they treated her when they thought no one of consequence was watching. It was a bitter pill she had to swallow to justify the war she was about to wage.
