I roll my hips, let my arms lift, let the rhythm own me.
Every step is a rebellion.
Every sway is a middle finger.
Every turn of my body is a scream they can’t hear over the music.
They think I need protecting?
And him? He thinks he can just claim me and toss me away?
I want him to see what that looks like.
I want to burn in the dark and make him watch.
Hands reach for me—too bold, too close—and I brush them off like dust. I’m not here to flirt. I’m not here to play nice.
I’m here to forget.
Forget the meeting.
Forget the contract.
Forget the way he said wedding like it was a goddamn chess move instead of a declaration.
Then the air shifts.
I feel it first. Heavy. Electric.
And I know.
He’s here.
Atlas.
My body recognizes him before my eyes do. My hips slow, melting from fire to honey. My head turns on instinct.
And I see him.
Standing just beyond the edge of the floor like he owns the fucking universe and wants to burn it down anyway.
That tailored navy suit, the top two buttons undone just enough to tease a glimpse of gold skin and arrogance.
His hair is rumpled, like someone had their hands in it, and I hate that it makes me want to be that someone again.
His molten eyes glow in the dim light. They’re locked on me.
Not on the bodies grinding.
Not on the VIP section.
Just me.
Like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
Like I’m the problem—and the cure.
Someone stupid moves toward me, smiling like I’m an open invitation.
