Club Rules
by @mysticravenIvy Reed slips into Damian Crowe’s elite underground club to expose its corruption, but the billionaire who rules from shadow and discipline sees through her every move. Their attraction ignites into a battle of negotiated control and raw surrender—until her exposé threatens to destroy him. Now both must face the truth: was it all deception, or the one thing neither dared to trust?
MEET THE CHARACTERS
Damian Crowe
35, carved from shadows and discipline—broad shoulders that fill a tailored black suit, dark hair silvered at the temples, and gray eyes that see through every mask except his own. He moves through his club like a predator who's learned patience, hands that have broken things now holding the leash of an empire built on secrets. When he watches Ivy, there's a flicker of something raw beneath the control—a man who's been alone so long he forgot what wanting felt like.
Ivy Reed
29, a journalist who's spent years learning to be invisible—chestnut hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, sharp brown eyes that miss nothing, and a thrifted blazer that hides the tremor in her hands. She has the kind of quiet beauty that doesn't announce itself, the kind that catches you off guard when she forgets to be guarded. Every notebook she carries is a shield, but Damian sees through it to the woman who's terrified she might want to be seen.
EXPLORE CHAPTERS
The Threshold
Rain slicks the cobblestones as Ivy Reed presses the hidden buzzer beside an unmarked steel door. The bouncer's eyes slide over her—thrifted blazer swapped for a fitted black sheath, chestnut hair loose instead of pinned. She says the code from her anonymous tip. The door swings open, and she steps into a hallway lined with smoked mirrors and the low thrum of bass. Her fingers graze the seam of her clutch where a slim notebook hides. The air is warm, heavy with leather and vetiver, as the door clicks shut behind her.
The Hard Way
Damian doesn't move. The lamp hums. His gray eyes stay on her—patient, reading. 'The hard way means you sit, we talk, and you tell me why you're really here. Or you walk out that door, and I'll have my security escort you—but not before I take that notebook.' His thumb taps the glass once. The clock ticks. Her hand stays on the clutch.
The Unopened Notebook
His hand lifts from the notebook. Not to open it—to slide it back across the desk, an inch, two, until the leather rests against her fingers. The gesture is neither refusal nor surrender. It's a mirror of her own earlier movement, and her fingers curl around the spine before she decides to take it back. The lamp hums. His gray eyes hold hers, waiting for her to choose what happens next.
The Weight of Leather
Ivy's fingers curl around the notebook's spine, but she doesn't pull it toward herself. Instead, she pushes it forward—just an inch, just enough to cross the three inches of mahogany. Damian's hand remains still on the desk, palm open, waiting. The leather brushes his fingertips, and her breath catches as she watches him choose whether to close that last distance.
The Held Breath
Ivy's fingers stay curved around the notebook's spine, the leather warm against her ribs. The lamplight catches her knuckles white as she holds it tighter. Damian's palm remains open on the desk, the scar a pale line in the stillness. Neither moves. The bass thrums through her heels, through the floor, through the silence between them.