Jossan’s hands trembled as he smoothed his hair, glancing at his reflection in a clouded window. The white button-down he’d borrowed hung stiff on his angular frame, collar half-turned, new enough to itch. Anxiety twisted his gold ring, a nervous tic, as he counted the seconds before Calais noticed him waiting outside her office. When the door finally swung open, Calais leaned in the frame—black silk shirt undone at her throat, dark eyes flickering over him with both precision and a lazy, predatory curiosity.

“You’re late,” she said, voice the barest whisper of threat and invitation. Jossan ducked his head, a flush crawling high on his cheeks.

“I—Sorry, it’s just—” he began, fumbling for the lie, but her gaze cut him off. She circled him, movements smooth, almost feline. Her perfume was sharp, expensive. He couldn’t decide if it comforted or unnerved him.

She gestured for him to follow. Behind the safety of her desk, she slow-blinked, studying him. A small, enigmatic smile curled at the edge of her mouth as she beckoned him closer. He tried to control his breathing; she could probably hear his pulse pounding.

“Impress me, Jossan,” Calais said. Her fingers drummed on the glass. “You’re not half as invisible as you think.”

His resolve cracked. “My father’s the city inspector. I’m here undercover. For money. I needed a way in,” he confessed, voice small but desperate. For a moment, shame and fear tangled in his chest. Calais’s expression flickered—interest, calculation, then something softer.

She stood, stepping into his space, so close he caught the shimmer of a scar by her jaw. She traced a finger down his shirt’s buttons, pausing on his sternum. “What will you trade for my silence?” Her words brushed his ear, sending a shudder down his spine. He swallowed, torn between terror and the strange rush of being seen.

“You want to keep your secret?” Calais whispered, pinning his wrists to the desk. “Convince me.” Her grip tightened. He froze—caught, hot and helpless—but as her lips pressed hard against his, he responded with stunned urgency. The kiss burned. Calais’s teeth scraped his lower lip, claiming, testing, threatening. He yielded, breath hitching, his hands fisting into her shirt. For a fleeting second, he felt both ruined and necessary.

When Calais finally broke away, her cheeks were flushed, pupils wide. She tilted his chin, searching his face for something—fear, loyalty, desire. “I choose who gets to betray me,” she murmured, voice fraying. “Don’t forget it.”

Elsewhere, Vespera prowled the club’s back corridors, camera slung loose, black dress slipping off one porcelain shoulder. Outside the greenroom, she found Evaleine, wild-haired and unrepentant, sprawled atop shipping crates, laughter fizzing between sips from a chipped glass.

“Pose for me,” Vespera demanded, barely a question. Evaleine arched a brow, lips quirking.

“Only if you make it interesting.” Bravado flickered in that crooked smile, but the way her fingers toyed with the necklace at her throat betrayed nerves.

Vespera’s eyes narrowed—clinical, appraising, hungry all at once. She pressed Evaleine’s back against the stacked crates, camera poised, breath mingling with paint fumes and adrenaline. “Trust me,” Vespera said, voice low and tangled.

Evaleine shrugged out of her jacket, letting it slip to the floor, baring ink-stained shoulders and the sharp rise of her collarbones. Goosebumps chased across her skin as Vespera’s cool fingertips directed her pose, sliding down the length of her arm, guiding her hips. The first click of the shutter echoed between them—a heartbeat, a dare.

Each shot was a striptease of trust; Evaleine’s laughter faded, replaced by yearning. Vespera’s hand lingered at her waist. When Evaleine reached up, tugging Vespera closer by the camera strap, the distance closed in a rush. Mouths met—tentative, then greedy. Vespera’s lips slid along her jaw, tongue tasting wine and paint, hands splayed over Evaleine’s ribcage. Evaleine gasped, arching into her, pulse skittering wild and bright. The camera clattered to the floor, forgotten.

They breathed each other’s names in broken rhythm, fingers tangled in hair, hot hands finding purchase on bare skin, the world shrinking until only sensation remained. When they finally pulled apart—breathless, flushed—Evleine traced Vespera’s cheek, uncertainty writ large in her gaze.

“Don’t vanish on me,” Evaleine whispered, raw. Vespera blinked, something fragile flickering in midnight eyes before she masked it behind a smirk.

In the office loft, Calais watched from the balcony, hair tousled, lips stained with Jossan’s blood. Her fists clenched the railing. Below, Vespera and Evaleine laughed, tangled. Calais’s jealousy felt cool and surgical, a blade sheathed and waiting.

She turned away, promise of retribution sharpening each step.

To be continued...