The night feels heavier than usual, smoke clinging to the corners of the club, the kind of air that makes every drink taste like ash. Eli Bray holds court at the head of the table, cigar smoldering, his gold tooth glinting every time he smirks at the supplier across from him. Dean is at his shoulder as always, silent, watchful, the weight of his presence enough to keep most men from breathing too loud. You’re there too, draped in sequins and perfume, a fixture at Eli’s side. It’s unspoken but understood—you’re his jewel, his entertainment, the prize no one else gets to touch.