CHAPTER TWO

The VIP lounge is dark and cloaked in shadows that seem to pulse with the beat of the music and as I step into the room, the tension coils around me like a serpent.

Damon sits in an opulent leather chair, his gaze cutting through the darkness, pinning me in place. There’s something unreadable in his expression—part curiosity, part hunger, part something else entirely that I just can’t seem to place. The ice in his glass clinks softly as he swirls his drink, the sound barely audible over the low hum of a Baas-heavy song playing in the background.

I exhale slowly, steadying myself. I can do this. I have to do this.

This is just another performance. Another game I have to play.He’s just another paying customer, simple.

I take slow, deliberate steps, letting the heels of my stilettos click against the polished floor. His eyes track my every move, dark and calculating, like he’s peeling away the layers of my skin with just a look.

I should be used to being watched. Admired. Desired.

But this is different.

This is him.

I roll my shoulders, letting my body loosen as I reach the center of the room. My fingers skim along the strap of the bikini top I had rushedly put back on after running off stage, teasing, hinting, promising. His jaw tics. I catch the way his grip tightens around his glass, the muscles in his forearm flexing beneath the crisp sleeve of his suit.

Good.

If he wants a show, I’ll give him a goddamn masterpiece.

I place one foot in front of the other, hips swaying in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, then turn my back to him, casting a glance over my shoulder. His gaze is molten, his body impossibly still, as if he’s fighting something within himself.

I drop low, arching my back just enough to taunt, then rise with agonizing slowness, feeling his stare like a phantom touch on my skin.

I should stop.

I should turn around and do this the way I always do—detached, indifferent, powerful.

But I don’t.

Because for the first time in years, I want to push. To see if Damon Baas is still the man I used to know, or if time has chipped away at him, left him a hollowed-out shell of someone I once burned for.

So I push.

I step closer, bringing myself just within reach. My fingers trail over my own shoulder, then down the curve of my waist. Damon watches, his throat bobbing slightly, his chest rising in measured inhales.

My lips part just so, my tongue darting out to wet them.

His eyes darken as ge reaches to pull me onto his lap.

And then—

The door swings open.

A chill skates down my spine before I even see him.

Roman.

He steps inside, his presence swallowing the air in the room, making it hard to breathe. His suit is pristine, his tie loosened just enough to give the illusion of ease. But I know better.

Roman is never at ease.

His gaze lands on me first, a flicker of something dangerous in those deep, unreadable eyes. Then, slowly, he shifts his attention to Damon.

For a long, stretched-out second, no one speaks.

The silence crackles like a live wire.

Then Roman smiles.

It’s slow. Amused. Dangerous.

“You look comfortable,” he muses, stepping forward with the kind of effortless authority that makes men step aside without thinking.

Damon doesn’t move. He doesn’t so much as blink.

Instead, he lifts his glass to his lips, taking a slow, measured sip before setting it down on the table beside him. “And you look…” He tilts his head, considering. “Unhappy.”

Roman chuckles, low and quiet. But there’s no humor in it.

“I don’t like people touching my things.”

I stiffen.

Damon’s lips curl as he retracts his hand that had been frozen in place. “She doesn’t look like a thing to me.”

It happens so fast I barely register it.

Roman moves.

One second he’s across the room, and the next he’s towering over Damon, gripping the arm of his chair with one hand, his other resting loosely at his side—but I know better than to be fooled by the ease of his stance.

Damon remains seated, unfazed, his expression smooth.

For a moment, neither man moves.

Then Roman leans down, just slightly, his voice dropping to something lethal. “Watch yourself, Baas.”

Damon smiles, slow and lazy, and God help me, but I recognize that look.

It’s the look he used to give me before he did something stupid, reckless or both. Damon had a plan.

The air in the room is thick with something volatile, something on the edge of combustion.

Then, as if this whole thing has been nothing more than a minor inconvenience, Damon pushes himself to his feet, brushing past Roman without so much as a glance.

But before he leaves, he stops beside me.

Close. Too close.

His hand skims just near my hip, not quite touching, but enough to make my skin prickle.

His breath is warm against my ear when he speaks.

“I’ll see you soon.”

And then, he’s gone.

I barely have a second to process before Roman’s hand is on my jaw, tilting my face up to his. His grip is firm. Possessive.

“What the fuck was that?”

I swallow, my pulse thundering against my ribs.

“You knew he was coming,” he says, voice low.

I shake my head. “I didn’t.”

“Admit it.” He yells.

“Roman I said I didn’t know okay! I haven’t seen him since we were im highschool.” My voice cracked at the last but. It really had been that long since I’d seen Damon, the boy who was once my whole world.

Roman’s grip tightens ever so slightly before he releases me, his fingers dragging against my skin as he pulls away.

His eyes search mine, looking for any trace of deception. Finding none, he exhales sharply through his nose and straightens his tie.

“This ends now.”

There’s no room for argument in his tone, no space for discussion.

But something coils tight in my stomach.

Because Roman doesn’t just say things. He acts.

And I have a sinking feeling that whatever happens next, I won’t have a choice in it.

Because I stopped being free the day I let Roman Rivera save me.

And Damon Baas?

He’s the ghost of a life I’ll never get back.

But ghosts, I’m beginning to realize, don’t stay dead forever.