When Jenny arrived on the 24th floor, she searched frantically for Mr. Black. She checked the conference rooms, the empty lounges, and even peeked into the staff corridors—nothing. She descended to the 3rd floor, weaving through the bustling crowd near the main bar, her eyes scanning every tall, dark-haired man. No sign of him.
She tried the 22nd, the 21st, all the way down to the 20th. By the time she reached the 20th-floor landing, she was out of breath, her chest tight with panic and exhaustion. Where the hell could Mr. Black be? I'm so tired.
Just then, she noticed two men in dark suits watching her from across the hall. Their stares weren't curious—they were intent, fixed. Who are they? Are they here for me?
Without a second thought, she slipped into the nearest elevator just as the men began walking toward her, their strides purposeful. Her heart hammered as she frantically pressed buttons—any button—to close the doors. The men picked up their pace, but the doors slid shut just in time.
Breathless, she leaned against the wall. I have to get out of this club.
Unknowingly, in her haste, she had pressed the button for the 4th floor.
---
4th Floor – The Black Family Booth
Zeke's phone buzzed once more.
"Sir, she's being followed by two unidentified males. She entered an elevator—heading to your floor."
Zeke's eyes sharpened. He set down his glass. "The 4th floor?"
"Yes, sir."
A slow, cold smile touched his lips. "Let her come. Intercept the two men on the 20th. Detain them quietly. I'll handle our lost little dancer myself."
He rose smoothly just as the elevator dinged softly down the hall.
Jenny stepped out, not into a crowded lounge, but into a hushed, opulent corridor lined with art and silence. And there, leaning against the doorway of a private booth, arms crossed, was Zeke Black—waiting.
"Looking for someone?" he asked, his voice calm, as if he'd been expecting her all along.
"Mr. Black," Jenny said, visibly startled. She took a small, reflexive step back. "What are you doing here? I was… I was looking for you around the penthouse. Where did you go? I thought you'd still be waiting."
She lifted the plastic garment bag in her hands, a peace offering. "I brought a change of clothes. I think it may fit." Her eyes drifted to the champagne stain on his white shirt—a pale, spreading blush against the fabric.
Zeke didn't respond immediately. He simply watched her, his expression unreadable, letting her nervousness fill the silence between them.
She looked at him again, her voice softening into something pleading. "Mr. Black… please change your clothes."
He held her gaze a moment longer, then, without a word, took the plastic bag from her hands.
"Wait for me," he said, his tone leaving no room for refusal.
Then he turned and disappeared into the private restroom just off the corridor, leaving Jenny standing alone under the low, judgmental light of the hall.
When Zeke finally emerged from the restroom, the borrowed shirt strained slightly across his shoulders, emphasizing the well-defined muscles beneath. He looked every bit the powerful heir—unexpectedly approachable, yet utterly untouchable.
Jenny couldn't help but stare, her lips parting slightly in silent awe. He really is a work of art, she thought, before catching herself.
"Like what you see?" Zeke's voice cut through her daze, cool and lightly amused. "I know I'm handsome, but your stare is starting to make me feel… observed."
"Sorry, Mr. Black," she said quickly, dropping her gaze to the floor, her cheeks warm.
"There's something about you, though…," he paused as he was waiting for her name, "Jenny" she replied as she understood his pause
She glanced up. "My name is Jenny Mr. Black?"
"Jenny," he repeated, as if tasting the name. "What would a 'pole dancer' be doing running around half the tower looking for me with a change of clothes? Most would have left the shirt outside the door and disappeared."
He moved even closer, his voice lowering.
"So I'll ask you plainly, Jenny—what are you really doing here?"
"Mr. Black" tears welled at Jenny's eyes as she continued "I am actually been chased some men, they are forcing me to pay a debt left by my father who committed genocide I really sorry Mr Black".
Ah, a sob story," Zeke said, his voice low and devoid of pity. He didn't step back, his presence still looming over her as her eyes welled with tears. "Genocide is a bit of a strong word for debt collectors, Jenny."
He watched her closely, analyzing every tremor, every flicker in her gaze.
"Let's say I believe you. That you're not a pole dancer. That your father left debts, and now sinister men are after you." He tilted his head, his expression coldly curious. "It still doesn't explain why you were in the executive wing. Or why you were so determined to find me, specifically, to deliver a shirt. A man running from creditors doesn't usually seek out the owner of the casino. They usually try to avoid him."
He finally took a half-step back, creating a space that felt more like a trap than a relief.
"So, you're being chased. By whom? What do they look like? And what, exactly, do you think I can do about it?" His tone made it clear this wasn't an offer of help, but an interrogation. He was testing the truth of her story against the fear he'd seen in her eyes downstairs—and calculating whether her desperation made her useful or merely a liability.