My eagerness to take Governor Renshaw down wasn’t shallow. There was a reason, a very personal one I need to admit. My dearest parents.
Angela and Edward Ashen weren’t just politicians, they were a force. My mom was running for State Senate, going head-to-head with Alexander Renshaw. Even though he had money and power, my parents had the truth and they weren’t afraid to use it.
“I don’t care how powerful Renshaw thinks he is,” Mom once told the crowd. “He doesn’t scare me. The truth always prevails.”
I remember how proud I was watching her speak. “That’s my mom!” I told anyone who’d listen.
They didn’t hold back ever. My mom exposed every dirty vote, my dad followed the money trail. Renshaw’s name came up again and again. And still they pushed harder.
The result? They won by a landslide.
And then the weirdness started. Late-night phone calls, Dad is sleeping on the couch while the laptop is open, mom staring too long at headlines.
“Did you piss off the wrong people?” I asked once.
She smiled then, tight-lipped. “Lyra, baby, when you tell the truth, everyone with something to hide thinks you’re the enemy.”
I didn’t recall it then. And I should’ve.
The night before everything went to hell, they were dressed in black – sharp, clean, and ready. Mom kissed my cheek. “Aunt Mel’s staying over. Be good, okay?”
“Where are you going?”
“Just a meeting.” Dad hugged me like it was the last time.
“Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you more,” I mumbled. “Bring them down.”
They gave me one last hug. “We will, baby. We love you.”
And the next morning, they didn’t come back.
I woke up to Aunt Mel crying. “Your parents… they didn’t make it.” Everything stopped for a while.
“Accident on Route 19,” the police said.
“Brake failure,” the report claimed.
“Instant impact,” the firefighters added. I didn’t believe it. Not until I saw the two caskets.
They buried my parents under a tree, and I was dumped into the system. Suddenly, the story faded and people moved on. But I didn’t. I started digging. Even at twelve, I knew something was off.
Years later, in Aunt Mel’s basement, I found it: a flash drive tucked beneath an old campaign photo, labeled in my dad’s handwriting “In case.”
Files. Names. Offshore accounts. Emails. All of it pointed to one man: Governor Renshaw.
Turns out that meeting they went to the night they died? Was with a whistleblower, someone ready to leak Renshaw’s dirty empire. They never got the chance.
That was the moment I stopped mourning and started planning. I enrolled in journalism school under a new name. Faked smiles, hid wires, and took every shady assignment I could find.
Every step led me to Burning Sun, the club where Renshaw liked to party in the shadows. Last night, I finally got close until he ruined it.
‘What a beautiful mate.’
It kept echoing in my head like a bad song on repeat, playing through midnight traffic, up the elevator, and all the way into my apartment where the only thing waiting for me was silence and a flickering lamp I never got around to fixing.
I kicked off my heels and collapsed onto the floor like my bones had straight-up quit.
“It was just an act,” I muttered to no one. “Some weird power play. Freaky rich guy mind games.”
I’ve danced for a lot of dirtbags; governors, mobsters, even a guy who once claimed he imported “rare wines” but couldn’t name a single vineyard. I’ve seen lust, boredom, entitlement.
But this guy? His stare wasn’t just about being interested. It was territorial, like I was already his and the rest of the world just hasn’t been informed yet. And that sniff? Seriously, what in the name of every red flag was that?
I pulled out my phone and played the audio file. Static… background music… drunken laughs. And then Renshaw saying, “…straight to–” right before the tall-dark-and-predatory man cut in. Perfect.
“Cockblocked by a walking glacier in a tailored suit,” I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. “Months of planning. Gone.”
Next morning, I powered through two cups of bitter gas station coffee and parked myself in front of my laptop like it owed me answers. I combed through everything: News feeds, encrypted forums, whistleblower threads.
Nothing. Not a single mention of the club. Not even a whisper of Renshaw’s latest shady shipment.
That night, I sat on the edge of my bed, already dressed for war, or at least for the stage. Rational me said quit while you’re still breathing. But stubborn me? Stubborn me grabbed her bag as I whispered, “Let’s try this again.”
The Burning Sun hasn’t changed, but something in the air has. The dressing room was quieter, more tense. Girls were doing their makeup in silence. Nobody laughed, nobody gossiped. It felt calm before something big and bloody.
Jasmine glanced at me through the mirror. “Have you seen him again?”
I blinked. “Who?”
She raised a brow. “The guy from Room Three. It looked like he could kill a man just by breathing.”
“He hasn’t shown up,” I said, brushing glitter across my collarbone like it was armor.
She leaned in. “Well, word is, someone’s been asking about you. Not just some drunk. Someone dangerous. Big money.”
I froze mid-swipe. “Asking what, exactly?”
“Where you went, what you look like without the mask, what your real name is.” Jasmine didn’t blink. “You be careful, babe.”
I forced a smirk. “Aren’t I always?” I wasn’t.
Out on the floor, I danced like nothing was wrong, same curves, same smirk, same walk. But inside, I was scanning, watching and waiting. I moved from the champagne room to the VIP lounge, back to the bar.
No ice-blue eyes and looming shadow. In short, ‘Alpha’ is not here. I should’ve been relieved but I wasn’t. Because now I was looking for him.
Near the bar, I caught part of a convo between two men, words like “shipment,” “dock,” and “Tuesday” floated out, before they noticed me and clammed up. I smiled like I hadn’t heard a thing and kept walking. Backstage, I passed two dancers whispering near the lockers.
“I heard he snapped a guy’s wrist just for yelling at him.”
“Seriously? Over a stripper?”
“Not just any stripper. The one with the mask.” I stopped walking.
“Hey,” I said, casual as hell. “You talking about that guy everyone mentioned? From Room Three?”
They were tense. One of them, Lola, nodded. “Yeah. He asked about you. Not by name, but… described you. Said he’d be back soon.”
“Did he give a name?”
“No, but I don’t think guys like him need one.” She gave me a once-over. “Guys like him don’t just flirt, they claim.”
Claim. The word hit like a slap.
I laughed it off, made some snarky joke I don’t even remember, and walked back toward the stage. But I could feel it, like something was tightening around me. This was supposed to be my mission. But now? I wasn’t just watching.
I was being watched.
