Three-inch heels, a dress that cost more than most people's rent, and the kind of makeup that says I didn't try, I just am. I'm already three champagne flutes deep from the car ride, the buzz settling warm and dangerous in my bloodstream.

The bouncer knows me. They all do.

I scan the crowd with practiced disinterest.

He's here. He's always here.

Blaze sits in the corner booth like a king surveying his kingdom, dreads pulled back, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. A glass of amber liquid swirls in his hand, ice clinking lazily. Next to him—Sienna, leaning in too close, her laugh too loud, manicured fingers brushing his sleeve like she has any claim.

My jaw tightens. The champagne curdles in my stomach.

He sees me before I can look away. His lips curl into something slow, knowing, dangerous.

He doesn't move. Doesn't wave me over.

He just watches. Waiting to see what I'll do.