Chapter 3 🌙Soren

The club hums around us—bass heavy, lights low, bodies moving in careless rhythm. The VVIP section keeps distance between us and the crowd, but not enough to mute what draws my attention.

They walk in together.

serena first, laughing easily, familiar and relaxed. Then Lyra.

She doesn’t announce herself. She doesn’t need to.

The red lipstick catches my eye first. Bold, deliberate. Then the dress. Black. Backless. Cut low and clinging like it was designed to misbehave. It leaves little to the imagination, every curve visible, every movement amplified under the lights.

I lean back slightly, fingers tightening around my glass.

What the hell is wrong with me?

My son is saying something beside me, but my attention drifts without permission. Lyra moves onto the dance floor with serena, bodies swaying together, laughing, grinding lightly in that careless, intimate way women do when they feel safe. Comfortable. Untouched by consequence.

Her hips move slowly at first, then more confidently, thighs brushing, back arching just enough to be felt. serena laughs in her ear, pulls her closer. Lyra responds without hesitation, hands on her friend’s waist, bodies syncing to the beat.

It shouldn’t affect me.

It does.

Heat curls low in my stomach, sharp and unwelcome. I take a slow drink, telling myself it’s nothing. Alcohol. Music. Fatigue. That’s all.

Still, my eyes keep finding her.

She throws her head back laughing, chestnut eyes bright under the lights. When the song slows, her movements do too—hips rolling, shoulders relaxing. She looks free. Unaware.

Men notice. Of course they do. I catch the looks, the way heads turn, the way gazes linger too long. I don’t like it.

That realization lands harder than the desire.

My son follows my line of sight and smirks.

“Relax,” he says. “They’re just having fun. They’re grown.”

I nod. Agree. Take another drink.

This is new.

Weeks ago, at the pool across from my penthouse. serena had just returned. Music. Sunlight. Laughter. Lyra walking away, hips moving with a softness that caught me off guard. I remember thinking nothing of it. Dismissing it. Telling myself it was fatigue. Distraction.

Now, watching her move like this, that dismissal feels thin.

A man grabs her hand.

My jaw tightens.

Lucas steps in. Good.

She leaves the dance floor shortly after, movements unsteady, heels betraying her. I tell myself I’m just making sure she’s fine. That’s all.

I follow.

She turns suddenly and collides into me.

Her body hits mine lightly but off balance. I catch her without thinking, hand firm at her lower back. She stiffens instantly.

She doesn’t look up.

Her purse slips from her hand. She bends clumsily, missing it twice.

“I….sorry,” she murmurs.

“Let me,” I say, reaching down.

When I straighten and hold the purse out, she finally looks at me.

Chestnut eyes. Wide. Nervous.

“Oh,” she says softly. “Sir.”

Her voice does something to me. Tightens something already strained.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

She swallows. Bites her lower lip.

“I’m with serena. And Zoe. Lucas too,” she says quickly, like she needs me to know she’s not alone.

As if I don’t already know.

I nod. “Enjoying yourself?”

She hesitates, then nods again. “Yes. I mean… yes. I just… I really need to use the restroom.”

She wobbles again.

This time, I reach for her shoulder, steadying her. Her breath catches sharply. Her lips press together, then she bites them again—harder.

The space between us thickens.

For one reckless second, I imagine closing it. Taking her mouth. Ending the tension burning through me.

I don’t.

I step back.

She exhales, murmurs a hurried “Thank you,” and rushes away, heels uneven, urgency clear in every step.

I stand there longer than I should.

My chest feels tight. Unsettled.

This is the first time since my wife died that desire has hit me like this….uninvited, unmanageable. I don’t recognize myself in it.

Forbidden.

That’s the word that settles heavily in my mind.

I turn back toward the VVIP section, grab my suit jacket from the back of the chair, shrug it on like armor. Too much alcohol. Too much noise. That’s all this is.

“We’re leaving,” I tell my son.

He looks at me, surprised. “Already?”

“Yes.”

Because if I stay one more minute, I might lose my mind.

And Lyra—serena’s Lyra—is not a line I can afford to cross.