“Another shot,” I declare, slamming the empty glass onto my vanity with more force than necessary.

Cleo raises an eyebrow from where she’s sprawled across my bed, already three shots deep. “Babe, we haven’t even left yet. Pace yourself.”

“I’m pacing myself perfectly,” I lie, reaching for the vodka bottle. “This is called pre-gaming with intention.”

She laughs, rolling over to watch me apply another layer of mascara. “Intention to what? Black out before eleven?”

“Intention to forget the five years of my life I’ve spent on that asshole.” The mascara wand trembles slightly in my hand. “Is that too much to ask?”

“Fair point.” She sits up, studying my reflection. “Damn, Soph. You look incredible.”

I step back from the mirror, taking in the full effect.

The black bodycon dress hugs every curve, stopping just below mid-thigh. The plunging neckline is borderline scandalous—definitely not something I would’ve worn with Ethan. The strappy heels add four inches to my height and make my legs look endless.

“I feel like someone else,” I admit.

“Good. That was the point.” Cleo bounces off the bed, smoothing down her own outfit—a crimson slip dress that makes her look like a vintage movie star.

“Tonight, you’re not Ethan’s ex-girlfriend. You’re not the responsible one. You’re just Sophie, and Sophie gets to do whatever the fuck she wants. And to fuck whoever she wants too.”

“What if I don’t know what I want?” I whispered.

“Then you’ll figure it out. That’s what tonight’s for,” she said, taking my hands and leading me to the entrance door.

The club hits us like a wall of sound and sensation. Bass pounds through my chest, making my ribs vibrate. Colored lights strobe across bodies pressed together on the dance floor, creating a kaleidoscope of movement and shadow.

“This place is insane,” I shout over the music.

Cleo grins, grabbing my hand. “I know the owner. VIP treatment all night, baby.”

We push through the crowd, and I’m already feeling the effects of our pre-gaming session. Everything feels heightened—the music, the lights, the way strange eyes track my movement through the crowd.

The VIP section is a different world entirely. Plush velvet couches surround low tables, and several hookah pipes bubble gently, filling the air with sweet, flavored smoke.

We settle onto a deep purple couch, and spend the next hour in a haze of conversations. The guy—who joined us at some point—is charming enough, but I find myself distracted. Every time someone walks by, I catch myself looking for something, though I’m not sure what.

“I need another drink,” I announce, standing too quickly. The room spins.

“Girl,” Cleo gives me a look. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, stay. I can handle a trip to the bar.”

Famous last words.

I make it halfway down the stairs before the combination of alcohol, hookah smoke, and flashing lights catches up with me. The world tilts violently, and I stumble, my heel catching on the step.

Strong hands catch me around the waist, steadying me before I can fall. “Easy there.”

I look up into the face of a stranger—at least, I think he’s a stranger because I can’t see a shit in this half darkness with my hazed eyes.

There’s actually something familiar about him, but my alcohol-soaked brain can’t place it.

“Thanks,” I manage, acutely aware that his hands are still on my waist.

“You okay?”

“Just peachy.” I try to step back, but my legs aren’t cooperating. “Little too much liquid courage.”

“When’s the last time you had water?”

I blink at him. “Water?”

“Come on.” He doesn’t ask—just guides me toward a quieter corner of the club where the music isn’t quite so overwhelming. “Stay here.”

He disappears into the crowd and returns minutes later with a bottle of water, already opened.

“Drink,” he commands. Something about his tone makes me obey without question. The water is cold and perfect, and I didn’t realize how thirsty I was until I started drinking. “Better?”

“Much.” I study his face, the parts of it actually, underneath his mask that I can see now. “Not many men in here care whether I’m coherent.”

He leans closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something dark and expensive.

“That’s because they don’t want to earn you.”

He didn’t ask. He knew.

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