"Went very well," Erion says, and I can hear the satisfaction bleeding through his voice. "Two thumbs up."
The phrase is deliberately cryptic but the meaning is clear. Lily's former boss had an unfortunate accident.
Good.
"Lily, you look beautiful," Artan says, deliberately shifting the conversation away from business and toward safer territory.
"You all look very dashing," Lily says, her voice warm and genuine, carrying none of the calculation that would exist if she understood what we were actually discussing. "Very intimidating in a good way. Like you could run a Fortune 500 company or star in a mafia movie."
If she only knew how close to accurate that second option is.
I extend my hand toward her, feel her fingers slide into mine immediately. Small and soft and entirely too trusting, her palm warm against mine, her grip firm enough to be real instead of performative.
We head down to the garage. Artan drives, Erion takes the passenger seat, and Lily and I settle into the back of the SUV. The security vehicle falls in behind us as we pull out, a constant shadow.
The ride to Obsidian is quiet. Lily's hand stays in mine, resting on the leather seat between us. I don't know if she realizes she hasn't let go or if she's maintaining appearances even without an audience to perform for. Don't know if the touch means something to her or if it's just automatic comfort, the human instinct to hold onto something solid.
I don't ask. Just hold on, my thumb occasionally brushing across her knuckles, mapping the delicate bones and soft skin, memorizing the shape of her hand.
We park in my private spot behind Obsidian. Artan and Erion lead the way through the private entrance, and Lily and I follow a few steps behind, my hand on her elbow, guiding her through the dim corridor.
The bass from the club vibrates through the walls before we even enter properly, low and rhythmic and invasive, the kind of sound you feel in your bones.
A waitress intercepts us near the VIP section, her face lighting up with recognition. "Mr. Krasniqi! It's so wonderful to see you back after so long. We've missed you."
Artan steps in smoothly, engaging her attention with the practiced ease of someone who's run interference a thousand times before. Gives me time to orient myself, to find the railing and use it as a guide, to move into the VIP section before she can look too closely and notice that something's off, that my eyes don't quite track right, that I'm navigating by touch and memory instead of sight.
The space opens up above the main floor, a private balcony where we can be seen but remain separated from the crowd below. Perfect for visibility without accessibility. Perfect for maintaining the illusion of control.
The lights hit me immediately. Flashing strobes that fragment my already compromised vision into useless pieces. Rotating colors that send spikes of pain through my skull with each shift. Sharp and disorienting, each flash a small violence that builds into something larger, something that threatens to crack my careful composure.
The music is too loud, bass vibrating through my bones, through my teeth, through the base of my skull where the migraine is already beginning to build.
I settle into the booth, forcing my face into neutral lines, controlled and relaxed and completely unbothered by the sensory assault happening on every front.
Artan orders champagne. The most expensive bottle they have, delivered with enough fanfare that people notice. Make sure they see me here with my beautiful fiancée, relaxed and comfortable and completely in control. Make sure the image registers before we disappear again.
The migraine builds steadily, pressure behind my eyes that spreads outward with each flash of light, each bass drop, each assault on senses that are already struggling to process the limited information they're receiving.
"What's wrong?" Lily leans close, her voice barely audible over the music but her breath warm against my ear.
"Migraine. The lights."
"Do you want to leave?"
"Not yet." The words come out tight but firm. I need to stay longer, need to be seen, need to cement the image before we can disappear back into hiding.
She shifts beside me. I can't tell what she's doing, just sense movement, her weight leaving the seat and then returning in a different configuration.
Then she's on my lap, her body blocking the worst of the lights, creating a shadow that offers immediate and profound relief. The strobes hit her back instead of my eyes, the colors diffused through her shape instead of stabbing directly into my retinas.
"Don't startle," she says against my ear, her lips brushing the sensitive skin there and sending a different kind of sensation through me entirely. "I'm putting ice on the back of your neck. It should help."
The cold hits a second later, sharp and shocking and exactly what I need. The cloth wraps around the ice, the bundle pressed against the base of my skull where the pain is worst. Her hand holds it in place, steady and sure.
To anyone watching from below, it looks like my fiancée sitting on my lap, holding onto me with tender intimacy. Natural. Affectionate. The kind of comfortable closeness that comes from real relationships.
But it's more than performance. It's relief, the migraine backing off just enough that I can breathe without pain spiking through my skull. It's her warmth against my chest, solid and real and grounding. It's her scent surrounding me, vanilla and honey and something uniquely her. It's the darkness she creates by blocking the lights, the shadow that lets me exist in this space without feeling like my head is being split open.
