Chapter 10

Emery Quinn

The cab smelled faintly of mint and spilled cologne, the artificial freshener failing to mask the lingering scent of countless passengers who had occupied these cracked leather seats before us. The air conditioning wheezed through vents that had seen better decades, and I found myself pressing my thighs together, hyperaware of every imperfection in this confined space.

I sat in the backseat next to Layla, my legs crossed tightly, trying not to think about how much of them were exposed. The hem of the dress refused to behave, no matter how many times I tugged at it with trembling fingers. Every time I moved—to adjust my position, to reach for my purse, to simply breathe—it rode up just a little higher, mocking my modesty with its rebellious silk. The fabric seemed to have a mind of its own, designed by some cruel fashion designer who understood that confidence was a luxury I couldn't afford tonight.

Layla sat beside me, scrolling through her phone with the casual indifference of someone who hadn't just convinced her best friend to dress like a completely different person. Her manicured nails tapped against the screen as she navigated through I*******m stories, occasionally letting out soft hums of approval or disapproval at whatever drama was unfolding in our social circle. She wasn't dragging me into my own personal episode of What Not to Do When You're Emotionally Burned Out—she was orchestrating it with the precision of a military general.

The city blurred past the window in streaks of gold and crimson, traffic lights painting temporary rainbows across the glass. Saturday night in the city meant possibility for some people. For me, it meant stepping so far outside my comfort zone that I couldn't even see the boundaries anymore.

"You good?" she asked without looking up, her voice carrying that particular brand of concern that came wrapped in forced casualness.

"Define good." The words came out sharper than I intended, betraying the anxiety that had been building in my chest since she'd zipped me into this dress three hours ago.

She smirked, finally glancing up from her phone to study my face with those perceptive dark eyes that never missed anything. "You're not screaming. That's good enough for me."

I exhaled slowly, counting to five the way my therapist had taught me years ago, and stared out the window as the cab pulled up to the front of the club. The driver, a middle-aged man who'd spent the entire ride humming along to a radio station that played nothing but eighties power ballads, turned to look at us with barely concealed curiosity.

"This the place, ladies?" he asked, his accent thick with decades of city living.

And that's when I saw it.

Or rather, felt it.

The attention.

Even through the tinted windows of the cab, I could sense the energy of the street, the electric current that ran through crowds of people dressed in their Saturday night armor. The club stretched before us like a glittering fortress, its entrance flanked by enormous glass doors that reflected the neon signs of neighboring establishments. Above the entrance, letters spelled out "MERIDIAN" in elegant gold script, and beneath that, smaller text that I couldn't quite make out from this distance.

The moment we stepped out onto the sidewalk, the air changed completely.

Cool night breeze carried the scent of expensive perfume and cigarette smoke, mixing with the aroma of street food from vendors stationed strategically around the club district. Neon glow reflected off the glossy surfaces of luxury cars parked along the curb—BMWs, Mercedes, the occasional Tesla that hummed silently among its gasoline-powered companions. The rhythmic thump of music pulsed from inside the building, so deep and insistent that I could feel it in my chest, synchronizing with my already rapid heartbeat.

But none of it distracted me from the way people looked.

I wasn't imagining it.

I knew I wasn't imagining it because I'd spent my entire adult life being functionally invisible in professional settings, blending into backgrounds and conference rooms with the practiced ease of someone who'd learned that attention often meant trouble.

But tonight was different.

Heads turned as we moved from the cab toward the entrance, like flowers following the sun. Eyes followed our progress across the sidewalk with an intensity that made my skin prickle with awareness. Men in expensive suits nudged each other with the subtle gestures of those accustomed to discretion, their gazes lingering on the cut of my dress, the length of my legs, the way the fabric moved when I walked. Women side-eyed me with quiet appraisal, their expressions ranging from curiosity to something that looked suspiciously like envy.

A group of college-aged guys, clearly pre-gaming with bottles barely concealed in paper bags, stopped their conversation entirely as we passed. One of them whistled—low and appreciative—until his friend elbowed him in the ribs.

"Damn," I heard one of them mutter, and I felt heat rise in my cheeks despite myself.

Layla nudged me too. Hard. Her elbow found that sensitive spot just below my ribs with the accuracy of someone who'd been my best friend since sophomore year of college.

"Holy shit, Emery. You're pulling gravity right now."

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry despite the humidity of the late spring evening. "They're staring."

"They're drooling," she corrected, her voice filled with the kind of satisfaction that came from being proven absolutely right about something. "Now shut up and use it."

"What?" I turned to look at her, confused by the sudden shift in her tone from supportive to commanding.

"We are not standing in that line."

I followed her gaze toward the massive crowd forming outside the entrance, and my heart sank. The line stretched around the block, a sea of glittering dresses and tailored suits that spoke of Saturday night ambitions and credit card limits pushed to their breaking points. Velvet ropes stretched between polished brass posts, creating an official barrier between those waiting and those who belonged inside. Two bouncers—both built like former NFL players who'd discovered protein powder and never looked back—stood at attention near the entrance, their expressions suggesting that patience was not among their virtues.

Impatient murmurs rippled through the crowd like waves, punctuated by the occasional laugh or the sharp click of heels against concrete. A group of girls in glittery dresses were already arguing with security, their voices rising above the ambient noise as they gestured wildly with their phones, apparently trying to prove their importance through social media screenshots.

The reality of the situation began to settle over me like a heavy blanket. We could be here for hours. My feet, already protesting the unfamiliar height of Layla's borrowed heels, would never survive a wait that long. The confidence I'd been carefully building since leaving my apartment would evaporate completely, leaving me exposed and ridiculous in a dress that suddenly felt like a costume.

Layla leaned in close, her breath warm against my ear as she spoke in the tone she'd perfected during our college years—the one that preceded every bad decision we'd ever made together. "See that guy up front? Tall. Dark. Definitely shallow?"

I scanned the area near the entrance until I spotted him. He was impossible to miss, really—standing apart from the crowd with the casual confidence of someone who'd never waited for anything in his life. Tall, just as Layla had said, with the kind of dark hair that looked effortlessly tousled but probably required expensive products and twenty minutes of careful styling. His jacket was leather but looked soft enough to be custom-made, and he held himself with the posture of someone accustomed to being looked at.

"Yes?" I managed, though the word came out more like a squeak than actual speech.

"Smile at him. Flirt a little. Get us in."

I blinked, certain I'd misheard her over the noise of the street. "What?"

"C'mon, Em. Use your hips. Use your lipstick. I dressed you like a sinner for a reason."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Use your hips. Use your lipstick. As if I were a collection of assets to be deployed rather than a person with feelings and boundaries and a moral compass that was currently spinning wildly.

"I can't—" I started, but she cut me off with a look that brooked no argument.

"You can."

We stared at each other in the middle of the sidewalk, surrounded by the chaos of Saturday night in the city, and I realized that this was one of those moments that would define the rest of my evening—possibly the rest of my weekend, maybe even longer than that. I could retreat back into my shell, insist we take our place in line like normal people, and spend the next three hours inching toward an entrance I might never reach. Or I could step into the version of myself that Layla seemed to see so clearly, the one who wore silk dresses and commanded attention and didn't apologize for taking up space in the world.

"You're insane," I muttered, but even as I said it, I could feel something shifting inside me—a gear clicking into place that I hadn't even realized was out of alignment.

"Insanely right," she replied with a grin that was equal parts encouragement and challenge.

I rolled my eyes, took a breath that felt twice as deep as normal, and started walking toward the front of the line.

The crowd seemed to part naturally as I moved through it, conversations pausing as I passed, eyes tracking my progress with the kind of attention usually reserved for celebrities or natural disasters. My heels clicked against the concrete with a rhythm that felt foreign and powerful, each step carrying me further away from the person I'd been when I woke up this morning.

The guy Layla had pointed out was leaning casually against the velvet rope barrier, holding a cigarette he clearly had no intention of lighting—it was obviously a prop, something to occupy his hands while he surveyed the crowd like a king reviewing his subjects. Tall, just as she'd observed, with designer stubble that had been carefully maintained to look careless. He was probably the type who took longer selfies than me, who spent more on hair products in a month than I spent on groceries.

But right now, he was also my ticket inside.

I stopped in front of him, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine that probably had a name like "Midnight" or "Temptation"—and tried to channel every movie I'd ever seen where the heroine got what she wanted through sheer force of charm.

He looked me over slowly, openly, his eyes traveling from my face down to my shoes and back up again with the kind of thorough appraisal that should have felt insulting but somehow didn't. Instead, it felt like confirmation—proof that Layla's transformation had been successful, that I was no longer invisible.

His lips curled into a smile that suggested he was very pleased with what he saw. "Well, hello."

I tilted my head, letting my voice drop just enough to sound like someone who was used to getting her way. "Hey. Listen, this might sound ridiculous but—"

"You want in," he interrupted, his smile widening as if he'd been waiting all evening for exactly this conversation. "And you don't want to wait."

I gave what I hoped was a sheepish smile, the kind that suggested I was embarrassed by my own boldness but not enough to back down. "Is it that obvious?"

He chuckled, a low sound that vibrated with amusement and something that might have been respect. "It's a little obvious. But you're pretty enough for it to work."

The compliment hit me like a shot of whiskey—warm and burning and strangely empowering. Six months ago, a comment like that would have made me blush and stammer and retreat into myself. Tonight, it felt like currency.

"Flattery," I said, surprised by the steadiness of my own voice, "might actually get you somewhere tonight."

He raised a brow, his interest clearly piqued by the suggestion. "Is that an invitation?"

"It's a negotiation."

He laughed again—low and amused and genuinely delighted—and signaled the bouncer with the kind of casual gesture that spoke of practice and privilege.

"Two," he said simply, nodding toward me without taking his eyes off my face.

The rope unhooked with a soft click that somehow managed to be audible over all the noise of the street.

Just like that.

I turned toward Layla, who was already grinning like the devil herself, her expression a mixture of pride and I-told-you-so satisfaction. The crowd behind us had noticed what was happening, and I could feel their attention like heat against my back—surprise, envy, grudging admiration from some of the women and frank appreciation from the men.

I winked at Layla, channeling confidence I wasn't sure I actually possessed.

Mission passed.