Seron dragged the woman toward the private corridors, his fingers digging into her arm with a bruising grip. She tried to pull back, her eyes darting toward the security guards for help, but Seron didn't even slow down. He reached into his pocket and slammed the Golden Tiger Card against the marble wall in front of her.
The woman froze. She knew exactly what that card meant. In this club, that piece of metal was a law unto itself. It meant the man holding it was untouchable, and anyone he chose was effectively his property for the night.
The flirtatious spark in her eyes died, replaced by a cold, hollow dread. She stopped resisting, her shoulders slumping as she realized she was now forced to oblige his every whim.
Inside the soundproofed private suite, Seron didn't look for affection or connection. He was a man drowning in a sea of inadequacy, and he used the woman as an anchor to keep himself from sinking.
