Candles flicker across the wooden bar, illuminating bodies pressed too close, laughter sharp as a spark. Siahra moves through the haze, her dark curls tumbling wild around her face, a pink slip dress clinging to her hips—a little too short, a whisper of defiance in every sway. She feels Roen’s gaze, a steady weight along her spine, even as she tries to lose herself in the swirl of staff and music.

Zatira tumbles onto a stool beside her, arms flung wide, cheeks flushed from too much punch and hope. Her sundress—always a size too big—slips off one shoulder, exposing the delicate curve of her collarbone and a bruised vulnerability she’s desperate to hide. “You look dangerous,” she teases, eyes lingering on Siahra’s lips.

Siahra laughs, but there’s a distant edge. She glances across the room, catching Roen brooding in the dim glow—dark hair perfectly tousled, white shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled to show the tension corded through his forearms. He nurses a drink he barely tastes, jaw clenched, unreadable.

As the music swells, Roen’s eyes never leave her. With every pivot of her hips, every shared whisper, his control frays. Siahra, reckless now, leans into a charming bartender, letting his fingers brush her waist. She flashes Roen a daring smile, challenging him.

He moves. Quick as a storm, he’s at her side, voice low, brushing the air hot against her ear. “Come with me.”

She hesitates—anger and longing a wild current in her chest. “Why should I?”

His jaw tightens. “Because I can’t stand seeing you with anyone else.” He grabs her hand, his grip tight, proprietary. The room falls away as he drags her, breathless, to his office—slamming the door behind them.

They stand chest to chest, shadows flickering on their faces—all raw edges and need. “Say what you want,” Roen demands, hands pressed to the wall on either side of her, trapping her.

“Just this,” Siahra spits, surging up, mouth colliding with his, kissing him furiously. His control unravels as he crushes her to him, lips devouring, teeth scraping. Her head knocks back against the glass, gasp ragged—his hands greedy at her thighs, tearing the dress up, heat searing through her.

He lifts her onto the desk, pushing aside paperwork. Their bodies tangle in a frantic storm—her nails claw down his back, his teeth at her neck, both burning. The office floods with breathy moans and frantic confessions—nothing else exists, only the taste of each other's skin and the desperate release as they shatter together.

They collapse, trembling and exposed, her face buried in his shoulder. He strokes her cheek, thumb lingering at her jaw, guilt flickering in his eyes—here, in the darkness, his armor has fallen.

Outside, the hallway creaks. Zatira stands frozen, tears glinting in her lashes, watching them through the barely open door. Her hands shake, gripping at her skirt as she stumbles back unnoticed, hurt carving fresh wounds across her face.

Later, as the party dies, Celine glides among the shattered—her smile soft, gaze searching, arms open for anyone who needs them. Siahra avoids her, lost in the aftermath, while Roen buttons his shirt with trembling hands and Zatira disappears into the night.

Celine’s phone buzzes. She glances down, skin prickling at the anonymous message aglow on her screen: “You don’t know who your friends are.”

She looks up, searching the shadows, heart hammering as suspicion poisons every gentle thing she’s ever believed.

To be continued…