“Have a good night,” I murmur, dropping my voice an octave.
“Have a good one,” he grunts before he buzzes me on through.
That's it.
No alarms. No thunder.
Just... open air.
I guess Mother was wrong. Not everyone in the building isthe watchful guard dog she thinks them to be. That poor sucker didn't even know who I was.
Either way, Mother will have his head when she learns about this.
The night hits me like a slap I've been begging for. Cold, fizzy, electric. I could cry from how good it feels to breathe unfiltered air. Thirty-five floors up to down, and suddenly I'm standing in a city that doesn't even know I've been drooling over it for years.
I flag a cab. "Take me to... uh, the hottest club you can think of!"
The driver, bald, probably mid-forties, laughs and mutters something about "tourists" before merging into traffic.
Manhattan blurs around me in a swirl of headlights and promise. The city hums with her horns, laughter, dazzling people, and distant sirens. Every block feels like a door I've never opened.
I press my forehead to the cool glass and smile. "Happy birthday to me."
Holy shit.So this is what a nightclub looks like.
It's loud enough to rattle my bones, smells like tequila and trouble, and every light in this place is pure chaos.
The bass vibrates through the floor, up my heels, straight into my bloodstream. Two minutes in and I already feel like raising hell.
Getting in was so fucking easy I still can't believe it. The line outside curved around the block, but the bouncer waved me over. Maybe it was because I was alone, or maybe something else entirely. I didn't question it as I handed over the cash for cover.
He checked my ID, stamped my wrist, and nodded toward the entrance. "Have fun, birthday girl."
Oh, I plan to.
Inside, I'm swallowed by sound and color. Bodies move like liquid and the air tastes like trouble. I weave through the crowd, clutching my tiny purse, trying to look like I didn't just jailbreak my own life.
At the bar, I shout over the music. "Tequila soda! Make it double. It's my birthday!"
The bartender smirks, pours heavily, and slides it my way. "Welcome to the other side of your twenties. It's all downhill from here."
A stab of envy darts through me. My mother stole years of this from me. Years of music and strangers and reckless, stupid fun. All to keep me locked in her tower. For a second, I want to scream.
Then again, any freedom is precious and I don't plan to waste a single second of it. I shove Mom out of my mind, cross my fingers she won't find out where I am, and raise my glass to nobody.
One night. That's all I'm asking. One night of freedom and bad decisions.
The first sip burns like honesty. The second goes down smoother, like regret's sexier cousin. Two drinks later, my nerves dissolve into rhythm.
The lights spin gold, pink, electric blue. The music thrums under my skin like a second heartbeat. And that's when I see him.
He's leaning against the far wall like he owns it and the wall knows better than to argue. Black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms ribboned with dark ink?—
My heart stops.
I know those hands. Those tattoos. The ink-dark patterns I watched catch the light on a stairwell landing less than twenty-four hours ago.
It's him.
