The evening air was crisp when Miles stepped out of his car in front of the Capital Heights Country Club — the kind of place that smelled faintly of money and old cigars.
Floodlights washed the manicured lawns in silver, the hedges trimmed to mathematical precision. Luxury cars lined the entrance like silent trophies, chrome flashing in rivalry under the lights.
Inside, the marble foyer opened into a lounge awash with amber and jazz. Laughter lilted over the clink of crystal tumblers. Waiters moved like choreography — silent, exact.
This was where men like Miles thrived — where handshakes built empires, and smiles hid knives.
He moved through the crowd with calculated ease. The tailored suit, the steady smile, the posture of quiet success — it all fit him perfectly.
No one here could tell that just days ago, he'd been undone by jealousy and humiliation.
Tonight, Miles Hart was flawless again.
