3

POV: Selena

“One more,” I say, slamming my empty shot glass on the vanity with unnecessary force.

From my bed, Claudine shoots me a look, her legs tangled in the blankets, her cheeks already flushed from the three she’s downed. “You do realize we haven’t left yet, right? Maybe try not to black out before we even hit the club?”

“I’m pacing myself like a pro,” I lie, reaching again for the vodka. “This is strategic.”

She snorts. “Strategic self-destruction?”

“No.” I pour another and toss it back. “Strategic forgetting. Like the last five years of my life, for example.”

Claudine sits up, eyes trailing over me. “Well, if you’re going to self-destruct, you might as well look hot doing it. Damn, girl.”

I take a step back from the mirror and catch my reflection. The tight black dress hugs my body like it was sewn onto my skin. It clings at the hips, dips low at the chest—dangerously low. The kind of dress I would’ve never worn with Evan. Strappy stilettos make my legs look like they belong in a perfume ad. I look like a version of myself I don’t recognize. That’s kind of the point.

“I feel like I’m pretending,” I admit, adjusting my neckline.

“You’re not pretending. You’re reinventing,” Claudine says, hopping off the bed in her deep red slip dress, her lipstick already perfect. “Tonight, you’re not Evan’s ex. You’re not the responsible older sister. You’re just Selena. And Selena can do whatever the hell she wants.”

“What if I don’t know what that is?” I murmur.

“Then we figure it out. Together,” she says, threading her fingers through mine and dragging me toward the door.

The club hits me like a freight train of sound and heat. Bass slams through the floor and climbs up my legs. Lights flash like lightning behind glass, painting bodies in purples, blues, and golds.

“This place is wild,” I yell over the music.

Claudine winks. “Told you. The owner owes me favors. VIP all night, baby.”

We push through the crowd, drunk on pregame shots and the freedom of the unknown. Every touch of air feels like fingertips against my bare thighs. Every look from a stranger lands like sparks.

The VIP section is draped in velvet and soaked in scent—hookah smoke, citrusy cocktails, desire. We collapse onto a plush couch, drinks in hand, strangers coming and going. One guy joins us, charming, talkative, forgettable. I can’t stop scanning the room, like I’m searching for someone I’ve never met.

“I need another drink,” I say, standing a little too fast.

Claudine lifts an eyebrow. “You sure you’re good?”

“I’m fine. Stay. I’ve got it.”

Famous last words.

I make it halfway down the stairs before the spinning hits. The lights smear, the beat pounds inside my chest, and my heel catches the edge of a step.

Arms catch me before I hit the ground.

“Whoa. Got you.”

I blink up at the stranger holding me. My brain, dulled by vodka and haze, struggles to register his face. All I know is he’s tall, steady, and his hands are firm on my waist.

“You alright?” he asks, eyes scanning my face like he’s searching for something.

“Peachy,” I say, trying to step away, but my knees disagree.

“When’s the last time you drank water?”

I blink at him. “Water?”

He smiles—barely. “Exactly.” He slides an arm behind my back and walks me to a quieter corner where the sound softens. “Stay here.”

He disappears into the crowd and returns moments later with a bottle. Already opened.

“Drink,” he says.

I obey. It’s automatic, inexplicable. The water is cold and sharp and tastes like survival.

“Better?”

I nod. “Thanks. Not many guys in here care if I can stand up straight.”

He leans in close, the smell of him intoxicating—dark, smoky, expensive. “That’s because they’re not trying to earn you.”

The words hit something buried.

“Dance with me,” he says.

It’s not a request.

He pulls me toward the dance floor, and suddenly the world is rhythm and heat. His hands are at my waist, my body flush against his. I don’t resist. I move with him, breath syncing to the beat, the moment. His touch is respectful, but there’s weight in it. Command.

Another song. Then another. His palms skim the curve of my hips. When he spins me around, his chest presses to my back, and I can feel his heartbeat hammering against my spine.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear.

“Good,” I whisper. “I’m tired of being safe.”

He turns me to face him, and for a second, the club fades away. It’s just his eyes and my pulse.

“I want to ask you something crazy,” I say, voice shaking. “Don’t go easy on me. Just… make me feel.”

His jaw tightens. One hand cups my face, his thumb grazing my bottom lip. “You sure?”

I rise onto my toes and kiss him.

The kiss is fire—nothing soft or slow. He kisses like he’s starving. I match him, fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. We’re lost in it.

When we finally pull apart, breathless and trembling, he doesn’t say anything. Just takes my hand.

“Come with me.”

We slip past velvet ropes and glassy stares. Security nods like they know him. He leads me into a private room lit in shadows and low amber light. The second the door shuts, he’s on me.

He kisses me again—rougher this time. His hands slide down, gripping my waist, pulling me against him until there’s no space left.

Then, he drops lower. His fingers slip under my dress, find the waistband of my panties, and pull them down in one smooth motion.

I gasp. But I don’t stop him.

He cups me, fingers sliding over heat and wetness like he already knows what he’s doing. Knows what I need.

I cry out against his mouth as two fingers push inside. Deep. Sure.

His other hand comes up, pressing gently at my throat. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to hold me there. To say: stay.

He curls his fingers inside me, and I nearly come undone. My knees buckle, but he holds me steady, spinning me effortlessly to face the wall.

My cheek hits the cool surface, breath ragged. One hand braces my head. The other is back between my legs, relentless and skilled.

I moan—loud, broken, real.

The buildup coils fast. Sharp. Blinding.

But then—

My phone rings. Loud. Jarring.

Claudine.

I stumble back, breath hitching, heart racing.

“I— I have to—”

He steps away, his hands falling to his sides. His voice is calm. “Go.”

I answer with trembling fingers. “Claudine?”

“Where the hell are you? I’ve been looking everywhere!”

“I’m… I was just— I’m coming.”

I don’t hang up. I don’t say goodbye. I just meet the man’s eyes one last time.

“I have to go.”

I pull my dress down, legs shaky as I head to the door. The slick between my thighs is unmistakable. My pulse won’t settle. My heels click sharply on the tile like a metronome counting down to something I can’t take back.

And I don’t want to.