He’d made that clearer still.
The music pulsed through my veins like a second heartbeat—wild, relentless, almost merciful.
I’d surrendered to it completely, eyes closed, lashes damp, arms lifting and falling as my body moved on instinct alone.
My hips traced slow, aching circles, not for anyone watching, not for attention, but because standing still felt like suffocating.
Every beat shook loose something sharp inside me. Every sway was an attempt to forget.
The bottle of Macallan hung from my fingers, heavy and familiar, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Half-empty. Or half-full.
I wasn’t sure anymore.
The strobe lights fractured it into molten gold, catching on the glass like fireflies trapped in whiskey.
I tipped it back, took a burning swallow, and let the alcohol scorch a path down my throat.
For a moment—just one fragile, stolen moment—I felt almost free.
Then a hand closed around my wrist.
Thick. Damp. Possessive.
I flinched so hard my breath left me in a sharp gasp, eyes flying open as my body jerked back on pure instinct. The music still thundered, but suddenly it felt distant, distorted, like I was underwater.
A man stood far too close.
Mid-forties, maybe. Chubby, soft in places that spoke of indulgence and entitlement.
His wrinkled button-down clung to his stomach, damp with sweat, and his face was flushed an ugly, blotchy red.
Cheap tequila rolled off him in nauseating waves, sour and sharp.
His fingers tightened on my wrist as if he had every right to touch me.
“Hey, girl,” he slurred, lips curling into a grin that made my skin crawl. “Stop dancing like you’re crazy. Dance with me instead.”
Something hot and feral snapped awake inside my chest.
I wrenched my arm back hard enough that the bottle nearly slipped from my grasp. “No.”
One word.
Flat. Absolute.
He blinked, clearly not accustomed to refusal. Then he stepped closer, invading my space again, his chest almost brushing mine, his grip reaching for me once more.
I leaned forward instead.
Close enough to see the broken capillaries in his cheeks. Close enough to smell the rot of liquor and arrogance on his breath.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” I screamed, my voice ripping through the music like shattered glass.
The bass stuttered around my words, but they landed anyway—sharp, undeniable.
Heads turned. Conversations faltered. A few dancers froze mid-motion, eyes wide, mouths parted.
The spotlight swung lazily across us, catching his face in stark relief.
