Adrian smiles, a knowing look in his eyes. “That’s the spirit. Let’s go blow off some steam.”
***
The VIP section of the club is dimly lit, guarded, flooded with luxury—everything polished, everything perfect. The hum of conversation and clinking of glasses blends into a smooth, rhythmic beat that tries to drown out the noise in my head. But it doesn’t work. I’m here, surrounded by all this excess, and yet, I’m still trapped in my own thoughts.
Adrian’s already sprawled across the booth, lounging like he owns the entire place, drink in hand, surrounded by a group of women laughing too loudly, leaning too close. He’s living in the moment, as always, chasing whatever fleeting pleasure catches his eye. I watch him for a second, his eyes scanning the women around him, his charm effortless.
A few whispers from Adrian, and suddenly, the women stand up and walk over to me. They glide in like they’ve been rehearsing their movements, their smiles, their touches. One of them runs her hand across the back of my neck, the other slides closer, her fingers lingering at the collar of my shirt. I don’t respond. I don’t need to.
They’re all the same—seductive, eager, but hollow. They try to pull me in, slipping their hands under my shirt, into my hair, into my pants. I tolerate it, out of habit, out of pity, but it does nothing for me. I don’t care about them. They’re distractions, and I can’t help but feel irritated by their presence. Their perfume smells wrong, too sweet. Their voices? Wrong.
The only thing right, the only thing real, is the face in my mind.
Zoe.
Her eyes, her lips, the way she looked at me with that mix of curiosity and fear. She’s the only thing I can think of, the only thing I want. Every woman here, every touch they offer, feels like an imitation. A pale reflection of what I’m truly craving.
I take the bottle of whiskey in my hand, uncaring, and sip straight from it. The burn of the alcohol does nothing to numb the ache that’s slowly building in my chest.
I look ahead, out through the glass wall of the VIP section, where I can see the sea of bodies dancing below. The flashing lights from the general floor pulse, a chaotic blur of movement and noise. It’s supposed to feel exhilarating, but it’s just white noise. Nothing matters here. Not the women, not the drinks, not even Adrian’s constant chatter.
That is, until I spot her.
At first, I think it’s just a trick of the light. A figment of my imagination playing tricks on me, but when I sit up straight, the certainty hits me. It’s her.
I watch as she moves through the crowd, her dress clinging to her curves like a second skin. The fabric is a deep red, so tight, so perfect, that it accentuates every movement of her body. Her makeup is sharper than usual, her lips bold and red, like she’s daring the world to look at her. And it works. She has the attention of everyone around her.
But it’s not just her. It’s the man beside her.
He’s standing too close, laughing too easily, his arm around her waist like he has the right to touch her.
The sight of him with her makes my blood run cold.
So this fucking jerk can touch her but I can’t?
I watch as she dances, her body moving seductively to the music, her arms wrapping around his neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She writhes, twisting her hips, the way she moves making something dark twist inside of me. She’s playing the game. Playing it well.
I can’t watch this.
I shove the women around me out of the way, ignoring the surprised looks they throw in my direction. I don’t care. I push off the booth and walk closer to the glass, my hands resting on the cool surface as I stare down at her. I can see everything now. The way she’s leaning into him, laughing too animatedly at whatever he’s whispering in her ear. The way his hand slides too possessively around her waist, pulling her closer.
I don’t want to see this. I don’t want to feel the tight knot of jealousy forming in my chest.
But I can’t look away. I can’t stop watching her.
I can feel the women closing in on me again, their hands slipping onto my neck, their laughter too loud, too eager. They’re trying to draw my attention back to them, to distract me, but I don’t want them. I never wanted them.
With a quick motion, I turn my head, my jaw tight, my voice low and threatening. “Leave me alone.”
They hesitate for a moment, their eyes flickering with uncertainty, but they back off, their disappointment obvious. I don’t care. I’m done with them. My focus is on her.
I turn back to the glass, my pulse quickening when I see her again.
Zoe.
She’s looking right at me. Her eyes—dark, full of something I can’t define—lock with mine across the distance.The recognition hits me like a punch to the gut. She knows I’m watching her. She knows. And yet, she doesn’t look away.
For a split second, time stands still. Everything around me blurs—the noise, the music, the women. All I see is her. All I feel is the weight of her gaze, like it’s branding me, marking me as hers.
