The Gutter I

Cecelia leaned back into the plush leather seat, Soren's coat still draped over her shoulders. The hum of the car was low and constant, broken only by the occasional hiss of tires against snow-melted pavement.

Her phone buzzed in her lap.

Alden: Where are you?

She quickly typed back, fingers flying across the screen.

Cecelia: Sebastian ditched. Need to blow off steam, buy some time for me.

The reply came instantly.

Alden: Bet. Come up. I'll have them let you in.

She looked up. "Take me to my brother Alden's penthouse," she told the driver.

He gave a short nod. "Right away, Miss Whitmore."

The building's lobby gleamed under warm recessed lighting, polished marble floors reflecting the soft glow of winter lights strung along the edges. Alden was already waiting near the front desk, coat unbuttoned, revealing his pajamas underneath, wrinkled like he had just hopped out of bed. 

He greeted her with a glance, noting the subtle tension in her jaw. "Let me guess," he muttered as they crossed the lobby. "Sebastian ditching you got you mad?"

She just lifted a brow.

They didn't speak again until they reached the penthouse.

The elevator doors opened directly into Alden's apartment, a glass-walled expanse of modern minimalism softened by deep navy accents and the scent of expensive cologne lingering faintly in the air.

Cecelia stepped inside, slipping out of Soren's coat and laying it neatly over the arm of the nearest chair. Alden watched silently as she pulled her hair free from its clip.

"Closet's open. Go change," he said, nodding toward the guest room down the hall. "Fifteen minutes. You've got two hours to disappear and get whatever this is out of your system."

"Only two?" she groaned, already headed for the door. "That's not even enough time to have fun, though."

"You want fun? With your definition of fun, we'll need four hours and bail money by the end of it," he called after her.

When the door opened again, Alden looked up from his phone and blinked. Then blinked again.

Cecelia stepped out, a goddess with confidence carved to her bones. The off-shoulder black dress sculpted her waist and hips with criminal precision. Sheer tights elongated her legs, and the strappy red heels added just enough drama to scream don't test me tonight. A fire-engine red mini bag swung lightly in her hand, and over it all, a bold leopard-print coat hung. 

Gold accents shimmered at her ears and wrists. Her lips were a striking red, matched to the bag, a deliberate choice to make them stand out from her otherwise simple makeup look. Hair tousled, posture lethally correct.

Alden let out a breath. "You're going out like that?"

She turned one slow circle. "Too much?"

"I didn't say that." He grabbed his keys and followed her to the door. "But if some poor soul falls in love tonight, I'm not explaining this to Dad."

At the elevator, the cab he'd ordered had already arrived downstairs, visible through the glass panel.

As it dinged open, Alden leaned in and lowered his voice. "You sure you're okay?"

Cecelia looked at him, the glint in her eyes sharper than before. "I'm fine."

Then she smiled. The kind of smile that made men stupid and women take notes.

"Tonight, I just want to have some fun without being told to shut it down."

Alden gave a half-smile, stepping back. "Then go. And when you come back, make sure the city still has its power grid."

The elevator doors closed.

The elevator slid open to the lobby, and Cecelia stepped out, taking long strides, attracting the attention of a young lady in the lobby who looked at her with eyes of admiration. The air outside hit her legs like tiny needles of cold, but she didn't flinch. Her heels clicked with unbothered confidence as she made her way toward the waiting cab, its engine purring beneath the dim orange glow of the awning lights.

The driver stepped out and held the door open for her, eyes quickly dropping to the floor after a single glance at her. Once she was seated in the back, legs crossed and red bag perched on her lap, he asked, "Where to, Miss?"

She looked up, expression unreadable. "Take me to The Gutter."

Silence. Utter silence. 

The driver's head turned slowly, eyes locking with hers in the rearview mirror. His brows knitted like he thought he heard her wrong. "I… beg your pardon?"

Cecelia met his gaze evenly. "You heard me."

The name hit the air like a dropped match.

The Gutter.

A club hidden in the skeleton of an abandoned underground station. Half concrete, half neon decay, known for its reckless energy, smoky rooms, and absolute disregard for the law. Nobles never acted up there, because even a prince could get his jaw broken by a busboy, and no one would dare report it. No cameras. No reputations. No rules. Just the one unspoken truth that if you step inside, you're just another soul in the dark whether you are a prince or a broke nobody. 

The driver hesitated. "Are you sure, Miss Whitmore? That place is… not exactly—"

"I'm aware," Cecelia cut in smoothly, her tone dropping an octave. "Just drive. You'll be tipped well."

He muttered something under his breath, something like these rich girls are gonna be the death of me but the car shifted into gear and pulled away from the curb.

Cecelia leaned her head back against the seat, one hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. Her lipstick still looked fresh. Her pulse had settled. The city lights streamed past the window, gilding her face in motion.

She looked relaxed, but deep down, she was a wreck because if anyone caught wind of her coming to such a classless place, she would never be allowed to see the light of day, or in this case, the neon lights of a club. 

Focus. Focus. Focus on the mission!