Him.
My birthday. Detroit. The bar, the champagne, the cake, the hotel.The night. His mouth. His hands. His voice when he whispered things no man had ever said to me before—or since.
He’s exactly the same and yet completely different. Still tailored and dangerous. Sharp lines in a dark suit. Heat in his eyes like he’s already fucking me with his stare. But beneath it—something colder. A leash on the chaos I glimpsed that night. A man who once kissed me like I was made of stars now looks like he could burn the world to ash and smile while it smoldered.
And God help me, some sick, reckless part of me wants to lean into the flame.
“Bianca,” he says, mockery dripping from the single word.
“Theo,” I answer, tone light, hip cocked like I couldn’t care less.
His jaw ticks. He hasn’t moved, but the weight of him slams into me anyway—like standing in the path of a storm I swore I’d never face again.
“How long have you been working here?” His voice is threaded with accusation.
I lift a brow, let my mouth curve in something unbothered. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Oh, but it is, Angel,” he says, heat rises in me, knowing he saw me on stage. He nods toward the table. “Champagne’s on me. Thought we’d toast like we did two years ago. We can celebrate the fact that the universe clearly wants us back in the same room.”
I smile sweetly, as if his words don’t send heat licking down my spine. “You’re assuming this is fate?”
“Is that what you call it?” His head tilts, eyes dragging down my body with a predator’s patience. “You walking into my club, on a night that I’m working? I’m a very busy man, Bianca. So, yes, I guess you could call it fate.”
“I had no idea you’d be here,” I say evenly, stepping closer. Not because I want the proximity, but because I refuse to let him see the warmth growing under my skin. “But please, keep flattering yourself. I’m sure it’s your best skill set.”
His mouth curves. “That attitude’s new. Be careful or it’s going to get you in trouble.”
I hold his stare, steady, even as my pulse batters my ribs. “Trouble’s never scared me,” I say softly, as if it’s fact, not the lie trembling at the edges of my calm.
He doesn’t reply right away. Just watches me, eyes moving over my face like he’s peeling me open, searching for the girl I once was beneath the armor I’ve welded into place. And, fuck, some part of me wonders if he can already see through every layer.
“I didn’t forget you,” he says finally, voice quiet and razor-sharp, like a blade sliding beneath my skin.
The silence that follows is suffocating. I hate that my pulsestutters, that my chest tightens as if he’s reached straight in and gripped my heart. He’s not allowed to say things like that. Not now. Not after all this time.
“Maybe you should have.”
His head shakes once. “Not a chance.”
I lift my chin, pretending his words don’t slice me open. “I told you I don’t do repeats.”
A flicker of heat sparks in his eyes. “If I’d known that, we wouldn’t have slept. I would’ve spent the entire night buried inside you.”
The air catches sharp in my throat, but I force a wicked grin, teeth flashing like armor. “Should’ve tried harder. You might’ve earned yourself a second round.”
He exhales, sharp and rough, his jaw flexing. “I should’ve. But then you disappeared.”
I move closer, close enough to breathe him in. His cologne hits me first—clean, expensive, threaded with memory. My body betrays me instantly, warmth spreading like a traitor even as my brain screams to step back.
“I didn’t disappear,” I say, softer now. “I left. There’s a difference.”
He leans in, not quite touching me but close enough that his breath ghosts over my cheek, a whisper of heat that ignites every nerve ending I swore I’d killed.
“Not from where I’m standing.”
I want to touch him. Just once. Just to remind myself why I shouldn’t. He steps in—closer than he should be. Close enough I can smell the salt of skin, the spice of whatever he’s wearing, expensive and infuriatingly familiar.
I laugh, quiet and mean. “Do you think you’re going to change my mind?”
