1
Rina
Two months earlier…
* * *
The bass pounds hard enough to feel it in my bones. It’s a steady pulse beneath the music. Lights strobe across the packed club, painting the crowd in flashes of silver and blue. Bodies move in every direction, the air thick with perfume, sweat, and the sharp bite of spilled vodka.
My date leans in, shouting something about quarterly projections. Or profit margins. Or whatever it is men like him think makes them interesting. His breath smells faintly of gin. I nod, take a sip of my drink, and pretend to listen while my mind drifts elsewhere.
He’s nice enough.
Smart, successful, safe.
And utterly forgettable.
Why am I so restless?
I came here to remind myself I could still do this. I could smile, flirt, and pretend to care. But all I can think about is how empty it feels. How much of my life revolves around managing other people’s disasters while mine quietly simmers beneath the surface.
It’s a shock when my gaze catches on a familiar face.
One I’ve spent months training myself not to look at.
One that belongs to a man who is completely off-limits.
The sight of him slams into me before I can mask the reaction.
I tell myself to look away.
To remember every reason I shouldn’t want him.
But my brain refuses to listen.
Oliver Van Doren leans against the bar, looking like sin in human form, with a glass of whiskey held loosely in one hand. His shoulders strain against the pale fabric of his shirt, every line of him carved with effortless confidence. The top buttons are undone, a tease of skin and arrogance that feels deliberate. His blond hair is just mussed enough to look like someone has already had their hands in it.
He doesn’t have to demand attention.
People just give it to him.
Even when I tell myself to turn back before he notices, my gaze continues to linger. There’s something about him I’m not strong enough to fight.
And that’s a problem.
The moment his eyes find mine, the noise of the club fades to nothing but the thud of bass and the electric hum between us. His smirk is slow and knowing. It’s the kind of expression that promises trouble.
Fuck.
I really need to look away and pretend I didn’t see him.
Instead, I hold his stare.
He’s on the move before I can question the decision.
Or the ramifications.
The crowd shifts around him, parting as if even the air knows better than to get in his way. He walks with a predatory ease that makes my skin heat and my better judgment unravel. Each step eats up the space between us until there’s nowhere left to hide.
