His lips twitch. Then the curtain parts.
And just like that—he pulls me into the dark.
The curtain closes behind us.
Swallowing the light.
Swallowing the noise.
Swallowing me.
The air changes—thicker, still charged with bass but quieter, like the music is deeper now, buried under layers of secrets. Everything smells like velvet and danger, the kind of scent that sticks to your skin and stains it.
His hand doesn’t leave mine.
He walks like he owns this place. Like it’s nothing new. Like he’s walked this hallway a thousand times and knows exactly how many breaths it’ll take before I’m not the same girl who walked in behind him.
The corridor narrows.
Dark walls. Golden sconces. Thick carpet muffling our steps.
He stops in front of a black door with no handle.
Just a keypad.
He lets go of my hand. I instantly miss the heat of it.
He types in a code. Fast. Familiar. Like muscle memory.
I stare at the back of his neck while he does it—the curve of it, the way his dark hair fades into clean skin. I want to bite it. I want to breathe him in until I can’t remember what my own name is.
Click.
The lock disengages.
The door opens.
And I step into a world I didn’t know existed.
It’s not a room.
It’s not even a lounge.
It’s a den. A playground. A throne room for sinners.
Candles flicker from metal cages suspended in the corners. The walls are lined in crushed black velvet, and there’s a low hum of something beneath the silence—like a heartbeat. Or a promise.
There’s a chaise lounge in the centre of the room. Deep red. Clawed legs. Looks like something from a Victorian séance, if the spirits being summoned were lust and violence.
A bar lines the back wall—crystal bottles and glass tumblers, a tray of clean-cut cigars and black napkins, like even decadence has a dress code here.
And then there’s the mirror.
A full wall of it.
Unforgiving.
Unavoidable.
