Ambrosed Love(Novel)

chapter 1

[A Private Club – Midnight]

The scent of whiskey and leather lingered in the air, mixing with the low hum of music.

A private lounge—secluded, dark, dangerous. Behind tinted glass, power shifted hands, but only one man truly held control.

Rayhan Sinclair sat in his usual spot, lounging like a king on a leather couch. A glass of whiskey rested in his hand, untouched.

Across from him sat a man—sweating, shifting, foolishly confident.

Steve, stood nearby, watching the dealer fidget with a nervous smirk.

"Mr. Sinclair, no need for threats." That dealer chuckled. "We both know you wouldn't risk a war over a minor disagreement—"

Bang***

The club music drowned out the gunshot, but the message was clear.

A clean bullet hole marked the center of the dealer's forehead.

His body slumped forward, blood pooling on the table. Silence swallowed the room—except for the slow tap of Rayhan's ring against his glass.

The dancer in the corner froze mid-movement, her hands trembling.

Rayhan exhaled, shifting his gaze to her for the first time.

"Did I ask you to stop?" He spoke in his calm yet dark voice putting his gun on the glass table.

She flinched before resuming her dance, though her movements were stiff. He didn't spare her another glance.

Steve, unfazed, stepped forward, dragging the dealer's body back with practiced ease. "The clean-up team?"

"Let the rats see what happens when they bite off more than they can chew."

Rayhan continued tapping his silver ring on the edge of the glass.

Steve nodded, making a call while Rayhan finally lifted his glass to take a slow sip. His gaze was dark, unfazed, already thinking ahead.

Then Steve came near him, "Boss, What about Bredford? He's been pushing too much lately."

Rayhan smirked, setting his drink down. "Transfer him."

Steve raised a brow. "Where?"

Rayhan swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "France. He needs a change of scenery."

Steve hesitated before asking, "You sure? Sending him away might make him dig even deeper."

Rayhan chuckled, tilting his head back. "Let him. He doesn't even realize he's walking straight into the storm."

He leaned back, watching the slow swirl of whiskey in his glass.

Then he closed his eyes while his head was leaned back on the headrest of the couch.

A flicker of something unfamiliar passed through his cold brown eyes.

'Serra.'

The name hit him like a whisper from a past he thought he had buried.

His grip on the glass tightened. The image of a wild-eyed girl flashed through his mind—her black waves bouncing as she ran ahead of him, laughing like she owned the world.

"Ray, you're too slow!"

A girl who was in early teens spoke teasingly turning to look back at him. Her hazel eyes, bright and full of mischief, had held no idea how deeply they were etched into his soul.

"Now, catch me." A boy in late teens started running while laughing loudly and cheerfully.

He had never minded chasing after her. Until one day, she stopped waiting for him, and he stopped chasing her.

"Serra." Rayhan whispered this name under his breath.

A muscle in his jaw ticked, and he opened his eyes while his head was still leaned back.

"Seraphina Calderon." He again whispered her name while staring at the ceiling.

The name left a bitter taste on his tongue. Once a melody, now nothing but a curse.

How foolish he had been—believing she was his to keep, believing she would stay.

She didn't.

She chose someone else.

Rayhan exhaled sharply, the warmth of his drink doing nothing to thaw the ice in his chest.

"Boss?"

Rayhan's expression hardened in an instant at Steve's voice, the softness vanishing like it was never there.

"Get it done, Steve." He commanded her in his cold voice.

Steve gave a short nod and stepped out, leaving Rayhan alone with the music, the blood-stained table, and a name he should have forgotten.

But he hadn't.

And he never would.

Hatred simmered beneath his skin, coiling like a serpent, while his grip tightened around the glass.

He spared a gaze at that Dancer.

She felt a chill in her spine and paused near the pole.

Rayhan got up from the couch, and started to go towards the VIP room.

And that dancer also started following his lead silently while her heart was trembling in her ribcage.

Seraphina Calderon was nothing but a lesson now—a reminder that weakness had no place in his world.

And if fate was cruel enough to bring her back into it… He would make sure she learned that lesson too.

He cast a fleeting gaze at the dancer.

The heavy bass of the club pulsed through the air, drowning in the haze of smoke and liquor. But for her, everything stilled the moment he looked at her.

A single glance. That was all it took.

Rayhan leaned back into the plush couch, his dark brown eyes flickering over her form—assessing, commanding, stripping away any illusion of choice.

The dancer felt a chill creep up her spine, her fingers tightening around the pole for balance. Her breath hitched as she held his gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs.

No words were spoken. None were needed.

When Rayhan stood, adjusting the cuffs of his expensive suit with a slow, deliberate grace, she knew.

This was why she was here.

He didn't wait. He didn't beckon. He simply turned, his tall frame moving with the same lethal ease as a predator retreating to its den.

And she followed.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she trailed behind him, her stomach twisting in a familiar mix of fear and anticipation. She had danced for countless men, played her part well enough to leave them breathless. But this was different.

Rayhan Sinclair was not a man who watched for entertainment. He watched to own.

And as the heavy doors of the VIP room closed behind them, she knew—tonight, she was his.

____________

(Character intro)

Rayhan Sinclair—A name that carried an air of mystery and danger

29 years old with 6'2 height.

he was a man who walked in the shadows yet commanded attention effortlessly.

His silver-gray hair framed a face sculpted with sharp, unforgiving edges, a beauty both haunting and lethal...

But his most striking feature was his heterochromatic eyes—one a piercing green, the other an intense blue.

A secret he kept buried from the world, hiding them behind contact lenses, masking the truth even from those closest to him...

With intricate ink trailing over his neck, whispering of a past unknown, his presence alone was enough to unsettle even the boldest.

He moved like a phantom—silent, calculating, and always a step ahead....