Chapter 1 - Veil

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...LIANA BENNET...

The first thing that hits me is the scent- something intoxicatingly rich, like aged whiskey poured over secrets, tangled with the bite of cigarette smoke and the kind of cologne that costs more than my rent. It’s heady, consuming, and just for a second, I feel like I’ve stepped into a world I have no business being in.

Then again, that’s exactly why I’m here.

Stasya Noir.

To the outside world, it’s just another high-end restobar, tucked between luxury boutiques and five-star hotels. Understated. Exclusive. The kind of place where power and money breathe the same air, where names aren’t exchanged but numbers are, and where sins are committed under the hush of crystal chandeliers. But the moment you step inside, the illusion shatters.

Golden light drips from the ceiling, casting a honeyed glow over velvet seats and marble floors polished to a mirror shine. The deep hum of jazz bleeds into the pulse of a distant DJ set, creating a rhythm that shouldn’t make sense but somehow does. And the people? They’re the kind you don’t expect to see in the same room- politicians, A-List actors, billionaires, criminals. New money. Old money. Powerhouses with unreadable expressions, draped in designer and diamonds, speaking in hushed tones as if the walls themselves are listening.

Maybe they are.

I move deeper into the space, my boots a quiet contrast to the expensive Louboutins clicking against marble. Unlike the sleek suits and silk dresses around me, I’m in my usual jeans, a black tee, and a leather jacket worn soft with time. If anyone cared to notice fashion then they might probably wonder who let the stray in. I know I look out of place. That’s the point. If I blend in too well, I risk standing out for all the wrong reasons.

Journalists aren’t welcome here.

Which is exactly why I have to be here.

I weave through the crowd, taking mental notes, my heart a steady drum against my ribs. My seniors at Vérité Global told me Stasya Noir was untouchable, that whatever happens behind its gilded doors stays buried. The last journalist who tried to uncover its secrets disappeared off the media map overnight. But if I crack this? If I get something solid? I won’t just keep my job-...I’ll make my career.

And after everything I’ve clawed my way through, failure isn’t an option.

Lost in thought, I don’t see the waiter until it’s too late.

“Shit—”

Glasses clink violently as I collide into him, liquid sloshing dangerously close to spilling. His tray wobbles, but he’s quick, adjusting the weight before anything crashes. I exhale sharply.

“Sorry,” I murmur, flashing an apologetic smile. To soften the impact, I grab a random glass from the tray, raising it slightly. “For the trouble.”

The waiter eyes me but doesn’t question it. Smart. Questioning things here probably doesn’t end well.

Drink in hand, I slip onto a barstool, keeping my gaze sharp, my presence unobtrusive. I’ve barely settled when my phone buzzes against my palm.

Manager Julia: Where are you?

I sigh, already dreading this conversation.

Me: Working.

Manager Julia: Working or slacking?

Me: If you mean ‘risking my ass in a place where journalists aren’t welcome,’ then yes. Working.

Manager Julia: You better have something worth the risk, Liana. The final project is in two months. If you screw this up, you’re out. No second chances.

Me: Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss.

Manager Julia: I don’t deal in confidence. I deal in results. Get me something solid. And don’t get caught.

I lock my phone, pressing my lips together. That’s Julia for you- mid-forties, all business, no bullshit. She doesn’t just want a story. She wants the story.

And so do I.

A year ago, I thought I’d be wearing a power suit, making closing arguments in a courtroom like my father. Instead, I flunked the bar exam. Once. Twice. By the third time, I had to admit that maybe law wasn’t for me. But journalism? Digging into the dirt, uncovering things people want to stay buried? That, I could do.

That, I had to do.

I clawed my way up from an intern to a staff writer at one of the top media firms, learning how to survive in an industry that thrives on pressure and deadlines. Now, my entire career hangs on this investigation. Stasya Noir isn’t just another assignment. It’s my lifeline.

I take a slow sip of my drink, letting the burn settle in my chest as my gaze flickers across the room.

I don’t know what I’m looking for yet.

But I know one thing.

Secrets don’t stay buried forever.

And tonight, I plan to start digging.

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An hour seems to pass, though it feels like longer. I stand at the restroom sink, washing my hands, watching the water swirl down the drain like my patience. The dim golden lighting in here is softer than the rest of the place, but it doesn’t hide the exhaustion settling on my face. My reflection stares back at me- messy waves of dark brown hair, eyes that are a little too sharp from analyzing every damn detail in this club, and a frown that refuses to budge.

I sigh, dragging a damp hand down my face. Nothing. Nothing worth my time, nothing remotely close to what I expected. So far, Stasya Noir has offered me expensive cocktails, music that shifts between jazz and deep bass drops, and a floor full of almost respectable people dry-humping each other like they’re in some underground den of sin.

And it’s not just people.

Oh no. That would be too normal.

It’s A-list celebrities- the kind who sit prim and proper in interviews, flashing their pristine smiles, talking about yoga and organic diets. The kind who win humanitarian awards and thank their grandmothers at the Oscars. Yet here they are, grinding against each other like the cameras don’t exist, like their million-dollar reputations don’t hang by a thread. I just watched an actor- whose entire career is built on playing devoted husbands in romance films- get a little too devoted to a woman who is not his wife.

I did not need that visual.

Shaking off the thought, I grip the sink edge, exhaling slowly. Honestly, I’m not sure what I expected. A secret meeting in the corner? Suspicious exchanges? Someone slipping an envelope under a table like a bad crime thriller? Maybe. But definitely *not* my Hollywood crush going at it like a damn animal.

Which reminds me-...

I still haven’t recovered from 'that'.

Getting to this restroom was an entire ordeal. This place is huge, practically a labyrinth designed to confuse drunk millionaires and reckless journalists. I took a wrong turn-..actually, several- and ended up pushing open a door marked with a sign I thought said ‘Restroom.’

It did not.

It was a staff room. And inside? Kevin Peters- yes, that Kevin Peters, the three-time Golden Globe winner, America’s sweetheart- bent over a couch with a very naked Russian actress, moaning things I can never unhear.

I didn’t scream, because I have some dignity. But I did make a noise that can only be described as a strangled wheeze before I bolted, slamming the door shut behind me.

And now, standing here, I run a hand through my hair, shuddering at the memory. That was not how I planned to meet my celebrity crush.

Not even close.

I shake my head, pushing away from the sink. I’ve had enough of this particular corner of Stasya Noir. Time to get back to my actual job. Stepping out of the restroom, the music swallows me again- deep bass, laughter, the clinking of expensive glasses. I start toward the bar counter but pause mid-step.

Maybe I’ve been going about this wrong.

So far, I’ve sat, observed, and waited. Maybe it’s time to do something else.

Maybe it’s time to wander. Because journalism is definitely not a waiting game. It’s about chasing the story.

And if the story won’t come to me, then I’ll go straight to it.

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