3

“Another shot.”

The words come out louder than I intend, sharp as glass against the vanity. The empty tumbler clatters against the wood with a satisfying crack, like punctuation on my unraveling.

Chantelle lifts her head from where she’s sprawled across my bed, already three shots in herself, eyeliner smudged to perfection. One brow arches in mock warning. “Babe, we haven’t even left yet. What are you trying to do, set a personal record?”

“I’m pacing myself perfectly,” I lie, fingers already reaching for the vodka. My pulse thrums with every pour. “This is called pre-gaming with intention.”

She snorts, rolling onto her stomach to watch me line my lips in the mirror. “Intention to what? Black out before eleven?”

“Intention to forget the five years of my life I wasted on that asshole.” My mascara wand trembles in my grip, betraying more than I want her to see. I drag it upward anyway, blinking through the sting. “Is that too much to ask?”

“Fair point.” Chantelle sits up, gaze sharpening as she studies my reflection. “Damn, Sel. You look like vengeance in heels.”

I lean back, let my eyes sweep over myself in the mirror.

The black dress clings like it was made for me, sculpting every curve. It stops scandalously high on my thighs, a siren hemline that whispers trouble with every step. The neckline plunges low enough to scandalize my past self, the self who used to dress to keep Evan comfortable. And the shoes—strappy, merciless, four inches of intimidation that make my legs look endless.

“I feel like someone else,” I admit softly, almost afraid of the honesty in my voice.

“Good.” Chantelle slides off the bed, her crimson slip dress hugging her like poured wine. She adjusts her straps with a grin sharp enough to draw blood. “That was the point. Tonight, you’re not Evan ’s ex. You’re not the good girl with the coffee orders and the careful smiles. You’re Selena . And Selena gets to do whatever the fuck she wants. Or whoever the fuck she wants.”

“What if I don’t know what I want?” The whisper escapes me before I can stop it.

She catches my hands, grounding me. “Then tonight, you’ll figure it out.” Her tone brooks no argument. “That’s why I got us on the list.”

The club is a wall of sensation.

Bass thrums like a second heartbeat, shaking through my ribcage until I can’t tell where I end and the sound begins. Strobe lights slice through the darkness, painting a thousand bodies in fractured color, moving, grinding, pulsing in a living kaleidoscope. Heat rolls off the crowd like steam, sweat and perfume and something electric that smells like danger.

“This place is insane!” I shout over the music, nearly tripping on my heels as we weave through the crush.

Chantelle’s grin glitters under the lights. “Owner’s a friend. VIP all night, baby.”

We push past the chaos into velvet-roped heaven: plush couches, low tables glittering with bottles, smoke curling lazily from hookah pipes. The crowd is still close enough to taste, but in here, there’s breathing room. Power. Privilege.

I collapse onto a couch, the vodka in my veins buzzing. Chantelle flirts shamelessly with a guy who’s appeared at some point, all teeth and charm, but I’m restless. My skin hums. My eyes track the crowd like they’re hunting for something. For someone.

“I need another drink,” I announce, standing too fast. The room tilts.

“Girl—” Chantelle’s warning is drowned by music.

“I’ve got it!” I wave her off, wobbling toward the stairs. Famous last words.

Halfway down, the room tilts harder. The air is too thick, the smoke too heavy. My heel snags, and I stumble forward—

Strong hands catch me, firm around my waist. “Easy there.”

I blink up, disoriented. His face is half-shadowed by the lights, but even in my haze I feel it: that pulse of familiarity I can’t place.

“Thanks,” I manage, suddenly aware his grip is still steadying me, fingers pressed to my bare skin through the thin fabric of my dress.

“You okay?”

“Just peachy.” I try to step back, but my legs aren’t entirely mine. “Little too much liquid courage.”

“When’s the last time you had water?”

The question blindsides me. “Water?”

His mouth curves—not quite a smile, more like a secret. “Stay here.”

Before I can protest, he disappears into the crowd. Minutes later, he’s back, holding out a bottle already cracked open.

“Drink,” he says simply, and something about the command sinks into my bones. I obey. The water is sharp and cold, perfect, sliding down my throat like I’ve been dying of thirst without knowing it.

“Better?” he asks, watching me drink.

I nod, wiping my lips with the back of my hand. “Better. Not many men in here give a damn if I’m conscious.”

He leans closer, his cologne wrapping around me like smoke—dark, expensive, sinful. “That’s because they don’t want to earn you.”

The words are a blade, slicing through every hollow space inside me. When was the last time anyone tried to earn me?

“Dance with me.” Again, not a question.

The dance floor swallows us whole. Bodies slam together all around, heat and noise closing in. His hands find my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I don’t resist. He leads. I follow. Our bodies discover a rhythm that belongs only to us.

One song bleeds into another. My hips roll with his, my hair sticks to my damp skin, my pulse thrashes in my throat. His hands stay where they shouldn’t—on my hips, sliding to the small of my back, grazing just enough to make me burn.

When he spins me, pressing my back to his chest, I feel his heartbeat hammering against me, syncing with mine.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs against my ear, his breath hot enough to melt me.

“Good,” I breathe back, reckless. “I’m tired of being safe.”

He turns me to face him. His eyes pin me in place, an intensity that makes my knees weaken worse than the alcohol.

The words tumble out before I can stop them. “Don’t be gentle with me. Just… make me feel something.”

For a beat, he searches my face. Then his hand cups my jaw, thumb dragging across my lower lip like a claim. “Are you sure?”

I rise onto my toes and answer with my mouth.

The kiss is wildfire. No hesitation, no careful testing. His lips devour mine, tongue sliding against me with practiced, hungry dominance. His hands tangle in my hair, yank me closer, and I let him consume me whole.

When we break, I’m gasping, trembling.

“Come with me.” His voice leaves no room for no.

I follow, heels clicking against tile as he weaves us past velvet ropes and stone-faced security who nod at him like he’s royalty.

The private room is dim, muffled, decadent. Plush couches, heavy curtains, music dulled to a background throb.

The second the door shuts, I’m against the wall. His mouth is on mine again, harder this time, desperate. His hands cradle my face, then slide down, gripping my waist like he can’t get me close enough.

Every hard line of his body presses into me, dizzying. This is it. The heat, the fire, the need I’ve been starving for.

His hand slides beneath my hem, hooking into my panties. In one rough tug, they’re gone. His palm presses against me, finding slick heat like it’s his right.

A moan rips out of me, swallowed by his kiss as his fingers thrust deep inside. Curling. Demanding. Ruthless.

One hand clamps at my throat, firm but not cruel, pinning me to the wall. The other works me open, relentless. My legs quake, thighs trembling, but he holds me up like I belong nowhere else but here.

He twists, and the coil in my stomach snaps so sharp I cry out into his mouth.

Before the aftershocks fade, he spins me. My cheek slams gently against the wall, his palm braced at the back of my head. His fingers slip between my thighs again, slick, merciless, dragging every moan I’ve ever swallowed out of me.

I writhe, nails scraping at the wall, lips parted around helpless sounds. My body bucks, burning, begging, breaking.

And then—

My phone shrieks. Chantelle’s ringtone.

The sound slices through the haze like ice water.

I gasp, head spinning. I’m in a private room with a stranger. Half-drunk. Dripping with lust.

“I have to—”

He steps back instantly, giving me space like he knows the line. “Go.”

I fumble for my phone. “Chantelle?”

“Selena , where the fuck are you? I’ve been looking everywhere!”

“I’m… I was just…” My eyes lock on him. Dark mask. Broader shoulders than should be legal. Every inch of him screams danger and temptation. “I’m coming,” I manage, voice rough.

“Good. Bar in five.”

I hang up, my hand shaking. “I have to go,” I whisper to him, though my body screams the opposite.

I yank my dress down, smooth my hair, pretend composure. My thighs are wet, my heels clack like gunshots, my heart gallops toward collapse.

And I leave without looking back.