Naya Brooks adjusted her short black dress as the Uber pulled up outside Club Lure 47, one of Velora's most exclusive nightspots. The fabric hugged her curves just right, making her look prettier than she felt. She stepped out carefully, heels unsteady on the cracked sidewalk.
Next to her, Jenny moved with effortless confidence. She turned, her leather jacket catching the streetlight as her fingers pressed against Naya's arm, firm enough to shatter her hesitation.
"Chill, girl. Drop that look," Jenny said, playful but sharp. "We own the night. You promised."
Naya smiled faintly, exhaled, and turned toward the glowing entrance.
It hadn't even been a week since she landed in Velora, and already, Leon had dumped her calling a long-distance relationship "unrealistic."
She could've stayed in bed rereading that cruel little goodbye message, but Jenny had shown up at her door with a glittery clutch, promising her a night full of magic.
"You didn't move here to cry over weak men, Naya," she'd said, yanking her out of bed. "Wear something expensive. I'm taking you out. Let's have fun like our old days."
And now, here they were.
Music pulsed through the air, lights flickering like a heartbeat across the club. Heat wrapped around her skin, the bass a steady rhythm beneath her ribs.
Jenny caught her hand and pulled her toward the quieter side of the bar, near the tasting counter—sleek, low-lit, with glass displays and trays of deep reds and chilled whites.
"One drink. One dance. After that, you can drown in your 'Men Ain't Shit' playlist. Deal?"
"Fine," Naya sighed, rolling her eyes. "But if I end up texting him, I'm blaming the agave and you."
Jenny grinned, her laugh slipping out like silk. "Please, babe. You won't even remember his name after a few shots."
She motioned to the bartender and slid a tequila toward Naya, no lime, no salt, just heat. Then she perched beside her for a beat, long enough to make sure Naya tasted, before rising and drifting toward the tasting bar.
Wine was more her thing anyway.
The first tequila burned sharply. The second dulled the edge of her nerves. By the third, her body relaxed, and the tightness in her chest finally eased.
Her laughter came more easily now, syncing with the rhythm of clinking glasses and murmured flirtation, with Jenny just steps away, swirling something dark and expensive in a crystal glass.
She rested against the bar, her fingers circling the smooth rim of the shot glass. The warmth of the tequila lingered in her chest like fire.
Around her, the club moved in its own rhythm. Low music, muted clinks of glass, the scent of spiced cologne and expensive perfume hanging in the air. She wasn't exactly smiling, but she felt steadier.
She was starting to forget Leon.
Starting to remember herself.
But just as her lungs began to loosen, her gaze slid toward the velvet ropes of VIP and froze.
A man was leaning against a column like he owned the oxygen around it. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a midnight-black suit tailored to sin. No tie. The top button of his crisp white shirt undone just enough to whisper danger. A gold watch gleamed at his wrist—understated, but lethal.
Tattoos teased the edge of his cuff, hinting at stories she wasn't ready for.
His gaze stayed on his phone, but Naya saw right through the act.
He had a kind smile men wore after shattering hearts for fun and walking away like it was nothing.
He leaned casually against the column, the picture of ease, like he was used to being wanted.
Naya felt her temperature spike.
She'd seen plenty of fine men before; smooth talkers, gym-polished and many to pause for but this one was something else.
Every nerve in her body buzzed, skin prickling as heat bloomed low and wild beneath her ribs.
It was like the air around him pulled at her, a silent magnet she couldn't resist.
Without thinking, her fingers slid across her phone's screen.
The camera shutter clicked—a sharp crack in the hum of the club.
She blinked at the photo, disbelief flashing through her like lightning.
Then a slow, secret smile unfurled on her lips, warmth spreading downward, folding into her like a whispered promise no one else could hear.
She reached for her drink—fingers trembling just enough to feel the weight of the glass, the cold smoothness against her skin grounding her. Her breath hitched as the warmth from the tequila lingered in her veins, a slow burn spreading from her chest down to her fingertips.
She looked up almost to call Jenny but something shifted. The man's gaze snapped to her, piercing and slow. Like he'd caught the exact moment she stole his image, and liked it.
Naya froze.
His mouth curved dangerously giving half a challenge, half an invitation. His gaze pinned her like a predator locking eyes with prey, calm and certain, as if the night had always been leading to this exact moment.
Then his eyes shifted. A whisper passed between him and the man beside him, quick and low. Their heads tilted toward her in perfect sync, like a signal.
She fumbled her phone, fingers slipping against the smooth glass. A shallow breath caught in her throat as she shoved it into her clutch, her hands now trembling.
He moved.
Pushed off the column with the kind of slow, deliberate grace that spoke of control of a man used to being followed, obeyed, wanted. The space between them began to shrink, his steps confident, unhurried. Her chest tightened.
"Jenny," she whispered, low and urgent.
Jenny didn't look at first, too focused on her wine. She tilted the glass, letting the deep red swirl, catching the light.
"What?" she asked, finally glancing over her shoulder.
Before Naya could answer, they were already there.
The tattooed man stopped just shy of touching distance. His gaze was low and with intent. Like he'd already stripped her bare in his mind... and approved of the view.
The second man slipped effortlessly into the spot Jenny had just vacated. His smile unfolded slowly carved with mischief and the quiet confidence of someone who never needed to ask twice.
"Mind if we join you?" he asked.
Jenny arched a brow, eyes flicking between Naya and the two men like she was reading a weather shift—storm incoming. Her gaze lingered on him for a second, then she gave a crooked smile.
"Sure."
That earned her a full smile, dimples and all. Then he turned toward her fully, the shift subtle but unmistakable: he'd picked his drink.
"I'm Dante," he said, like it was something worth unwrapping. "Figured we'd start with names."
His eyes flicked briefly to Naya just enough to acknowledge her before turning away again, leaving the next move to his friend.
The tattooed man leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"Enjoying the view?" he asked, voice low and laced with heat.
His breath hit her skin like fire—salt, tequila, and something rich that made her knees threaten to give.
Naya's pulse spiked. Her chest tightened. It felt like being caught mid-thought, mid-breath, mid-fall.
She didn't move. Just turned to meet his eyes, slow and sure, like a dare.
"…Why?"
His brow lifted, a slow, knowing smile curling at the edge of his mouth like he'd been waiting for this exact reaction.
Then he leaned in, voice dropping and edged with quiet threat.
"You took my picture."
The air between them thickened.
Her pulse jumped. Panic caught in her throat, and her fingers twitched at her side.
"I… I can delete it," she offered, her voice dry, uneven.
He didn't back off. If anything, he stepped closer, his presence folding over her like heat.
"I don't want you to delete it."
His eyes swept over her slowly and exact, like he was cataloging everything she wasn't saying.
From the curve of her lips to the rise and fall of her chest, to the slight tremble in her hand.
Then his gaze snapped back to hers, sharp and unblinking.
"I want to know why you took it."
Jenny stepped in, her hand brushing lightly against Naya's—a quiet, steady anchor. Her eyes searched Naya's face, searching for the answer she wasn't sure she wanted to hear.
Naya took a shaky breath, the tremble in her body barely contained. Slowly, she pulled away from Jenny's touch.
A part of her that was tired of holding back whispered: Answer him.
She let the tequila do the talking.
"I guess… I needed proof," she said, voice low and raw.
For a beat, the world stilled. The music thumped somewhere far off, but right here, the space shrank to the distance between his eyes and hers.
"Proof of what?"
She hesitated. Just a beat. Then met his eyes, steady.
"That something could still make me feel."
That landed.
He didn't flinch, but something in his posture shifted. Less armor. More interest.
No smile. Just silence stretching between them, taut and deliberate.
Then he stepped in—not a lot, just enough for the scent of him to find her. Something warm. Clean. A little reckless.
"Then maybe," he murmured his voice, low and real. "You should tell me what you're feeling."