Humiliation flashed first. Then rage.
His jaw tightened, lips curling back as he hissed something ugly under his breath—something I couldn’t hear but didn’t need to. For a split second, I thought he might grab me again. Might shove. Might retaliate.
Then he stepped back.
Once. Twice.
And just like that, he melted into the crowd, swallowed by bodies and shadows, disappearing as though he’d never existed at all.
My hands shook.
I exhaled slowly, chest heaving, forcing my shoulders to relax as adrenaline drained from my veins. I closed my eyes again, willing myself back into the music, back into that fragile bubble where nothing could touch me.
That was when the music cut off.
Not faded. Not transitioned.
Cut.
The silence hit like a slap.
A ripple of confused murmurs spread through the club, tension snapping tight as a wire. I opened my eyes, heart stuttering painfully as I turned toward the entrance.
Four LAPD officers were moving through the dim space with unmistakable purpose.
Uniforms crisp. Faces hard. Flashlights slicing white beams through smoke and shadows, illuminating startled expressions, glittering dresses, raised hands clutching drinks.
The crowd parted instinctively, fear and curiosity clearing a path before them.
And they were walking straight toward me.
My stomach dropped so hard I thought I might be sick.
The lead officer—a woman with a tight bun pulled so severe it looked painful, eyes sharp and utterly unimpressed—stopped directly in front of me.
“Miss Elena Baranov?” she asked.
The world narrowed to the sound of my own heartbeat.
I couldn’t seem to find my voice. My tongue felt thick, useless.
I managed a single nod.
“You are under arrest.” Her tone was calm, practiced, merciless. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”
Each word landed like a stone dropped into my chest, sinking deeper, heavier.
“I...” My lips moved, but nothing came out at first. I swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Hands behind your back.”
Cold metal closed around my wrists with a final, unforgiving click.
The cuffs bit into my skin, tighter than I expected, anchoring me to the reality I’d been desperately trying to outrun.
The bottle was taken from my hand.
Someone murmured. Someone else whispered my name like it was gossip worth savoring.
