One

De Luca Mansion

Midnight.

<JACK POV>

I yank my hand free.

"Let go of me."

My palm stings where her nails dug in. I hold onto that small, sharp feeling, because anger is easier than the alternative.

Skylark stumbles back and catches herself on the edge of the desk. Of course she does. Skylark doesn't fall. She descends.

"Leave me alone. I'm not marrying you. I'll decide that myself."

I slam my fists against the table. The wood groans under my hands. I want it to break. I want something in this room to break besides me.

She straightens her dress and folds her hands like she's praying. She isn't. She's never prayed for anything in her life. She's just found the pose that makes her look most reasonable while she says the most unreasonable things.

"You're lying, Jack." Her voice goes soft. Patient. Like she's explaining something to a child. "I'll be the only woman for you. Your father already confirmed it."

She tilts her chin. Smug. Certain. She's won this conversation a hundred times before it started, and we both know it.

"Move."

My voice comes out low. Everything inside me has gone hard and cold, the way it does when I'm about to do something I can't take back. I stare past her at the door. The room feels smaller than it did a minute ago. Even Romano's portrait on the wall seems to be watching me, waiting to see what his son does next.

Skylark sways back like I've struck her. Her mouth opens, then closes. For half a second, something real flickers across her face — something almost wounded — and then it's gone, folded back into that smooth, rehearsed calm.

"Whether you want it or not, I'm going to—"

I push past her. Her shoulder knocks against mine. The door slams against the frame hard enough to crack through the whole hallway. I step out and loosen my tie because I can't breathe, and I need to blame something.

Fucking bitch. She's always testing me.

Behind me, her voice follows through the door — sweet, confident, impossible to ignore.

"I am the only woman for you, Jack. Like it or not."

I don't turn around. I don't answer. I just need to be out of this house before I do something that can't be undone. The walls are too close. Romano's shadow is in every hallway. Every room I pass still smells like him.

"John." My voice comes out flat. "Get the car ready."

John appears the way he always does — quiet, unhurried, like he's been standing an hour waiting for me to need him. He takes one look at my face and doesn't ask what happened.

"Where to?"

I roll up my sleeve. I need to do something with my hands.

"No plan. Just get me out of here."

John hesitates. It's small — a half-second pause, a glance toward the hallway behind me — but I catch it. He's worked for this family long enough to know what my face looks like when I'm close to the edge.

"There's that club downtown," he says carefully. "Prestigious place. Might help you clear your head."

I don't answer. I climb into the car and let the leather swallow me whole. The gates pull away behind us, and something in my chest loosens for the first time all day. The city blurs past the window, and I watch it like it belongs to someone else.

The night slips by. Another opportunity I don't want.

—--

Prestige Clubhouse — Midnight

<ARIANA POV>

"Get your asses ready, girls. Tonight, we steal the show."

Catlin's voice cuts through the dressing room like a whip. She's been running this place for fifteen years and she still says it like it's the first time. Maybe that's why it still works.

I pull my makeup bag toward me.

This job is a ticket. Quick money, quick exit. It means putting my face in front of men who've had too much to drink and pretending it's a privilege. It means swallowing the parts of me that want to crawl out of my own skin, keeping my rhythm, and collecting enough tips to cover my grandmother's medication and the rent. She thinks I wait tables. I let her think that.

"Yes, Mama," I say, because arguing with Catlin costs more energy than agreeing with her.

I flip through the wardrobe. Blue lace catches my eye — thin straps, short hem. I grab my crystal-blue heels. My favorite pair. The ones I bought with my own money two years ago, back when things were almost okay. I pull the straps tight, pat my hair into place, and use powder to hide how tired I look.

Prestige Clubhouse downtown. Expensive crowd. Easier marks. The married men with fat wallets usually make up for the commute. They don't care about the person behind the dance. Fine. I stopped caring about them a long time ago.

Survival taught me to give them what they want and take what I need. It's a fair trade. Or close enough.

"Ladies on stage!"

The dressing room empties like a curtain rising.

"Alright," I whisper to myself. "Let's get this show rolling."

The lights hit me like a second sun. The bass rumbles through my bones. I catch the pole with both hands and let it steady me while my stomach twists the way it always does in the first thirty seconds.

Men throw cash at the stage. I move for them — slow hips, tight arcs, controlled turns — and their hungry eyes follow every inch of me. I don't see them. I see the money. I see Grandma's next refill. I see the rent notice on the counter.

Then I see him.

He isn't like the usual men.

He's tall. Broad shoulders. Grey-blue eyes that cut like a knife. He sits like he belongs to no one — that's the first thing I notice. No leaning, no performing, no trying to impress the room. He looks wide awake in a place built for people who want to be numb.

And dangerous.

When my turn comes, I drift his way. Hair pinned up, hips rolling with the music. Up close, he smells like expensive tobacco and something colder — money that's never learned kindness.

I sit on his lap and feel the tension in his body through the suit. He feels solid. Heavy. Certain.

I lean closer. Let my fingers rest against his chest.

"Take me somewhere," I whisper. "Not here."

His eyes move over my face. The alcohol has softened his focus, but something sharp is still working behind his gaze. He's been drinking. He's not stupid.

"Where do you want to go?"

His voice is low. Not slurred. Just slower than it should be.

"Somewhere private."

He studies me for a moment. Then he stands. I slide off his lap and follow him through the club. The music fades behind us as he leads me toward the bathroom.

He pushes the door open and steps inside. I follow.

The bathroom is quieter, but the bass still vibrates through the walls. Jack walks to the mirror and braces both hands on the counter. He lowers his head. The smell of whiskey clings to him like a coat he forgot to take off.

I move slowly. He lifts his head and catches my reflection in the mirror.

"What are you looking at?"

"Nothing."

"Then stop staring."

His voice is rough. I hold his gaze in the glass and don't look away.

I step closer until my body almost touches his.

"You brought me here," I remind him.

He turns around.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. His eyes drop to my lips.

Then he grabs my waist and pulls me against him.

The kiss is rough and unexpected. He tastes like whiskey and something spicy. One hand tightens around my waist while the other presses against the counter beside me.

I place my hands on his chest. Pretend to lose myself in it. My fingers have stolen small things my whole life. This time I reach for something bigger.

I move one hand toward his pocket.

His fingers close around my wrist before I get there.

"What are you doing?"

His voice cuts through the quiet. No slur. No hesitation.

"Nothing," I lie.

His eyes narrow. The alcohol hasn't made him careless.

"Nothing?" he repeats.

I give him a small smile and lean closer.

"Are you always this suspicious?"

"Only when someone's lying to me."

His grip stays on my wrist. Not hard. Just certain. I glance at his hand, then back at his face.

"Take me somewhere else."

He watches me for another moment. Then he lets go and turns toward the door.

"Come on."

I followed him out. My face is calm. My wrist still tingles where he held it.

He leads me through the club without a word. The music swallows us again. Lights flash across his face, shifting him from cold to unreadable and back. He walks through the crowd like everyone in it belongs beneath his notice.

I follow close behind him.

Not because I trust him. Because I'm still doing the math.

That watch on his wrist. The weight of it. The way the light catches the face every time he moves. One good night — one clean grab — and it covers Grandma's medication for a month. Maybe two. I've lifted watches before. Cheap ones. Nothing like this. Nothing that could change anything.

But men like him don't come to places like this alone, and they don't stay careless for long. If I want it, I have to move before he sobers up.

That's the only reason I follow him.

At the entrance, the cold air hits my skin. I wrap my arms around myself, but he doesn't slow down or look back. A black car waits at the curb, headlights shining across the pavement. The driver steps out and opens the back door.

Jack gets in first. He glances over his shoulder at me.

"Get in."

I look at the car. Then at him.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere."

I don't move. He notices.

"That isn't an answer," I say.

His jaw tightens.

"You asked me to take you somewhere. I'm doing exactly that."

I hesitate beside the open door. The sensible part of me says walk away.

But the watch is right there. And the watch is worth more than my rent. More than a month of pills.

I climb in.