Naya adjusted her short black dress, the fabric hugging her curves in all the right places, fighting the nerves as she stepped out of the Uber. The neon glow of Club Lure buzzed above, promising chaos, excitement, maybe even a little redemption. Her knees felt weak—not from the heels, but from the uncertainty of it all.
Jenny, all long legs and confident swagger in a fitted leather jacket and a mini skirt that barely grazed the top of her thigh, tossed her braids with a grin. "We don't walk in like we're scared," she said, her voice playful but firm. "We own this night. You promised."
Naya stayed silent. It had been a long time since she'd set foot in a club—since Leon had walked out, leaving behind a new city, a new job, and a heart that still hadn't quite healed.
An hour ago, Jenny had knocked on her door with a glittery clutch and a grin that could only spell trouble. "You didn't move here to cry over weak men," she said. "Put on something sinful. We're going out—and I'm bringing the shots."
Here they were now.
Inside, the club pulsed—heat, bass, bodies in motion. Lights flared and sliced through smoke like strobe lightning.
Jenny grinned, grabbed her hand, and dragged her toward the bar. "One drink. One dance. Then you can cry over your 'Men Ain't Shit' playlist. Deal?"
"Fine," Naya sighed, giving in. "But if I end up texting him, I'm blaming the agave and you."
Jenny burst out laughing. "Please. You won't even remember his number after a few shots."
The first tequila shot stung. The second numbed. By the third, her limbs were looser, and the ache in her chest less sharp. She started to think—maybe tonight didn't have to hurt.
Then her gaze caught on a man leaning against a column near the velvet ropes of VIP—tall, broad shoulders, all black everything. Tattoos curled from under his sleeves, and a half-smirk tugged at full lips like sin itself.
Beside him stood another man, animated, laughing at something. Stylish. Cocky. Sharp jaw and a diamond stud catching the light. Their posture screamed comfort and command, like they weren't just part of the club—they owned its pulse.
Naya's breath hitched. Her thumb moved before her brain caught up. Snap. The shutter clicked, too loud in her ears, and the moment felt frozen in time.
It was enough.
The second man, the one with the earring and denim jacket, turned sharply. His eyes immediately found hers through the crowd. Locked. Held.
For a moment, it felt like time slowed, the space between them stretching, thick with something she couldn't quite name. Then, he nudged the man beside him.
The one she'd just photographed.
He looked up, following his friend's gaze. His eyes found hers. And then, a slow smile curled on his lips.
It wasn't polite. Not surprised. Just… amused.
Predator amused.
They murmured between themselves, the words too low for her to catch, but the intensity of their gaze never wavered. One of them laughed softly, the sound almost like a warning.
Naya's heart raced. She wasn't sure whether to bolt or stay.
The one with tattoos and intent in his step—he was coming straight for her now.
Naya hid the phone quickly, her fingers trembling. "Jenny," she whispered, "we need to go."
Jenny blinked. "What? We just got—"
But it was too late.
They were moving. Cutting through the crowd like it parted for them. The taller one—tattoos and danger—had his eyes fixed on her like he'd already decided.
"Hey," said the friend with the dimple and easy grin. "You two look bored. Want company?"
Jenny blinked, then smiled back. "Depends on what kind of company."
Before Naya could protest, the man she'd photographed stepped closer.orward.
"Enjoying the view?" His voice was smooth, low, velvet laced with gravel. Naya stiffened but met his gaze. "I… didn't mean to—"
"You took my picture." It wasn't a question.
Her mouth went dry. "I… I can delete it."
He stopped her.
"I don't want you to delete it." His eyes dragged down her frame and back up. "I want to know why you took it."
She inhaled sharply.
And something inside her—something tired of playing safe—whispered: Answer him. She let the tequila talk.
"I guess I wanted proof," she said.
"Proof of what?"
"That something could still make me feel."
He studied her. As if her words surprised him. As if he hadn't expected honesty.
He leaned in, just a fraction. Close enough that his cologne—spice, smoke, something expensive—wrapped around her like a promise. "Then maybe," he murmured, "you should tell me what you're feeling."