Charles Collins sat alone at the end of the bar, fingers curled around a sweating glass of vodka tonic he had no intention of finishing. The ice clinked against the side every time he moved, but he didn't drink. Not because he couldn't, he simply didn't need to.
He was already high.
The neon light from the stage flickered across his face in pulses, painting him alternately in red and shadow. It gave him the appearance of someone almost human.
Almost.
His eyes didn't follow the current dancer. She was nothing more than filler, a placeholder until she came back on stage. The rest of the girls weren't worthy of his attention. They danced for tips. For rent. For validation. They showed skin and smiled for affection like stray cats begging scraps from strangers.
But Taryn? Taryn was different.
She didn't beg. She ruled.
Charles had watched her for weeks. First by accident, then by design. He'd noticed her walking home after a shift, her keys between her fingers, back straight, pace quick. Not frightened. Not careless. Just… aware.
She carried herself like she was untouchable. And that only made him want her more.
Charles took in everything, her shifts, her patterns, the security rotation at the club, the way she always scanned her surroundings before entering her apartment building. It had become his nightly ritual. Most men ended their day with a drink or a football game. Charles ended his watching her.
She was perfect. The way her body moved. The way her eyes never lingered too long on any one man. She didn't perform desire, she commanded it.
But she wasn't free. Not really. And that's what haunted him. That's what called to him.
He could fix that.
Charles wasn't delusional, at least not in the way society used the word. He knew he was different. Special. His mother had told him so when he was young, right before she locked him in the attic for the first time.
"Too smart for your own good," she'd whispered through the door.
She'd feared him. Just like everyone else eventually did. But Taryn? Taryn would understand.
She would see that his attention wasn't a threat, it was a gift. A devotion. He hadn't chosen her lightly. He'd studied others, discarded them like poor candidates. Some of them made the news. Most of them went unnoticed.
But Taryn? She was worthy. His angel in stiletto heels. His dark-haired bride.
And tonight, she was going to come home.
His fingers brushed the edge of his jacket pocket, where the engagement ring rested in a small velvet box. Platinum, not gold. She wasn't the gold type. He'd chosen carefully. It had taken six pawn shops to find a design elegant enough to suit her.
He had also bought a dress. White. Satin. Floor-length. Long sleeves. Vintage. Clean lines, no frills. He could already see her in it, standing in front of him, quiet, beautiful, and completely still.
He imagined brushing her hair behind her ear as she lay posed just so, a perfect tribute to the goddess she was.
His goddess. His final girl. That had been the plan.
Until he showed up.
Charles hadn't seen him at first. The man had appeared like smoke, quiet, cold, deliberate. Sitting in the VIP section like he owned it. Like he owned her.
Zane Williamson.
Even the name reeked of privilege.
Charles clenched his jaw so hard his molars ached. He knew the face. The name. Everyone did. Real estate empire. Vanity Fair covers. Magazine spreads with models draped on either side of him. A billionaire who treated women like collectibles, like trophies to add to a shelf already lined with power and money.
And now he was watching Taryn.
Worse, he was buying her.
Charles had watched the exchange with the bouncer. The wad of money. The quick nod. The casual dominance of a man who didn't ask permission because he didn't think he had to.
It made Charles's skin crawl.
Taryn didn't belong to him. Not to that stranger with ice in his eyes and money spilling from his pockets. She wasn't something to be purchased. She was meant to be worshiped.
And Charles had been worshiping her longer than anyone.
He'd been patient. Careful. He had mapped out every detail of tonight's plan with surgical precision. The van was parked in an alley nearby, tinted windows, engine quiet. Inside: restraints, the dress, the camera. Everything ready for the moment she left the club through the back door.
But now?
Now she wouldn't be leaving alone.
Zane had interrupted the moment. Changed the script. And Charles hated when people changed the script.
He hated chaos.
He also knew when to wait.
Patience was a hunter's best weapon. Any fool could strike quickly. Only a predator stalked the long game.
Charles breathed in slowly, steadying his pulse. Rage was a distraction. And distractions got you caught.
He turned his gaze toward the dressing room hallway. If she came out now, if she left without going to the private rooms, maybe the plan could still proceed. Maybe Zane's presence was a fluke. A curiosity.
But deep down, Charles knew that wasn't true.
Zane wanted her. And Zane wasn't the type to lose.
Charles reached into his jacket and pulled out a small notepad from the inner lining. He flipped to a new page and began to sketch, not with precision, but with feeling. A scene. A body in white. A smear of red across satin. A skyline in the distance.
The perfect tribute.
If Zane wanted her tonight, he could have her. But only tonight. After that? She would be Charles's.
He would take her from him. From everyone. He would capture her beauty, freeze it in time. The world didn't deserve her. Not the stage. Not the drunken fools who tossed bills at her feet.
And definitely not Zane Williamson.
Charles tore the drawing from the pad, folded it once, then twice, and tucked it into his wallet behind an old photo of his mother. He finished it off with a scrap of ribbon he'd taken from the dress earlier that afternoon.
He'd show it to Taryn later, when she was ready. When she was his.
He finished his untouched drink and set it down on the bar, dropping a few bills beside it. Normal. Bland. Forgettable.
He pulled his hood over his head as he exited the club, keeping his pace slow. Casual. The cold air hit him like a slap, but he welcomed it. It brought clarity.
His fingers found the keys to the van in his pocket.
Not tonight, he told himself.
But soon. Very soon.