"You absolutely do. They call you Ice Queen behind your back."
"That's not true."
"It's a little true." She smirks before shoving the dress into my hands. "Go. Put it on. I'll do your hair if I have to."
I glare at the dress. The fabric is soft, expensive, and shorter than anything I own.
"What harm could it do?" Polly asks, too sweet.
I exhale. "Fine."
Her squeal is immediate and violent. "YES!"
I change in the bathroom, pulling the dress over my head. I tug it down, as I feel like my ass is exposed. It's unforgivably short. But it fits, clinging in places I usually hide. It makes melook like someone who goes out on purpose instead of by force. I step out and sulk about it.
Polly's eyes widen. "Oh my god. Joelle."
"Don't," I tell her.
She claps her hands. "You look …"
"Don't."
She grabs my shoulders and steers me toward the mirror. "You look hot. Like … actually hot. Like you could ruin a man's life in one night."
I stare at my reflection. It's me. But not the version I live in. My stomach twists.
Polly grins. "Perfect."
I want to argue, but she's already dragging me out the door.
The club is exactly what I hate. Noise and lights and bodies pressed too close. Perfume mixing with sweat until everything feels sticky. Music is so loud it turns thoughts into static. I can feel my pulse in my teeth. Polly loves it. She moves through the crowd like it parts for her, all confidence and laughter and ease.
Hazel, one of our friends, spots us first. "You guys made it!" She squeals, rushing over and hugging us both. “Fucking hell, Jo, you look bangin’.”
“She’s my creation,” Polly says smugly.
Tate, our other friend, waves from the booth, drink in hand.
Hazel and Tate are Polly's friends, which makes them mine by association. They adopted me when I moved to London the way Polly did. With the same lack of permission.
"You're looking good, girl," Tate says, spinning me.
"Polly made me do it."
Tate smiles. "Good, about time. You look amazing."
We slide into the booth, where drinks appear out of thin air. Polly is already in conversation with someone she knows. Because Polly knows everyone. Hazel is telling me about a PR nightmare she handled today. Tate is laughing too loudly. I try to relax, but I can’t. I keep tugging at the hem of the dress, wishing I was wearing pants and wishing I was at home with a cup of tea in bed.
Then I see the booth beside ours in the VIP section. A group of men clustered together, looking like they've been forced here. My gaze catches on one of them. He looks too big, too broad, for the booth compared to his friends, who are not small at all, but compared to that giant, they are. Athletes, probably, but not rugby players as none of their faces ring a bell. I notice the giant isn’t laughing like the other guys are. He isn't flirting with the array of women who seem to have found the booth. He isn't scanning the room like he's on the prowl like most men in nightclubs do. He's sitting back, one arm slung over the booth, with dark hair that's slightly too long, a sharp jaw, and a face that looks carved from discipline and bad moods. There is scruff along his square jaw, not in an unkempt way but also not in an overly styled way. His eyes are dark, assessing, and not interested in anything around him. He's massive, easily six-five. Broad shoulders strain against a black button-down he's left open at the collar, and he has thick forearms, leading to large hands wrapped around a glass he hasn't touched in minutes. He looks slightly miserable. Like he, too, has been dragged here against his will. Relief curls in my chest because I'm not alone in my misery.
Our eyes meet.
It isn't electric. It's … recognition. Not of a person. Of a mood. A shared understanding that this is not where either of us wants to be. He looks away first. I should, too. But I don't. I’m emboldened suddenly.
Polly is mid-sentence about a player's scandal when Hazel leans closer to me. "They're cute, aren't they?"
I blink. "Who?"
