But reality hits me like a punch.
Cohen is outside.
In front of the VIP entrance.
But he’s not going in.
A bouncer the size of a vending machine blocks the door, arms crossed over a chest made of steel.
Cohen is frantic.
Running a hand through his hair, pacing backward like a caged animal, then surging forward again.
And he’s wearing only a T-shirt.
No jacket. No scarf.
Just black cotton against five degrees below zero.
He’s shaking. I can see the tremors from here.
I stomp across the slushy parking lot.
“Congratulations, Becker!” I shout, my voice slicing through the night.
He spins around.
I expect annoyance. Arrogance.
But what I see is panic.
His eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowing the hazel. He’s pale, sickly pale, with dark shadows under his eyes and two days of beard.
“Sloane,” he breathes. His exhale blooms into a desperate white cloud. “Go home.”
“Like hell I will!” I snap, stepping right in front of him. I shove him back with a hand on his chest, resisting the urge to punch him. His skin is freezing through the shirt, but the muscles underneath are wound tight as cables.
“You’re pathetic! My father was crystal clear: no scandals. No screwups. And here you are, outside the sleaziest club in the county, trying to get in for another one of your nights—”
He’s not even listening.
His gaze keeps darting over my shoulder, toward the door, like I’m invisible.
“Move,” he growls—except his voice cracks. “I need to get inside. That gorilla won’t let me through because I’m not on the list. I—I need to—”
I shove him again, harder.
“Of course they won’t let you in! You’re a walking liability! And guess what? I’m done with you! WHO’S INSIDE, HUH? Your ‘princess’? Is that who you’re so desperate to reach? Did she promise you a night you won’t forget—”
Cohen breaks.
He grabs my shoulders.
Not violently—like a drowning man clinging to the nearest lifeline. His fingers dig into my coat, trembling.
He looks into my eyes and there it is:
Terror.
