4

Isabella

Thursday night, and the sidewalk outside Vice is buzzing with cigarette smoke, perfume, and the restless shuffle of heels on pavement. But Kyan isn’t here. Normally, he’d be leaning against the brick wall by the entrance, suit jacket unbuttoned, that predator’s stillness making him look like he’s just about to storm inside without me. Tonight? Empty.

My stomach knots. He knows I hate arriving solo—knows why the thought of stepping into a club alone makes my skin itch. He’s the only one I’ve ever told, and he wouldn’t leave me hanging unless he was already inside.

Sure enough, after I shove my coat at the girl at coat check and push through the bass-heavy fog of lights, I find him. King’s off to the side, exactly where I should have guessed—tucked into one of the low lounge tables, the kind of seat that makes people come to him. Not jammed against the bar where bodies press like it’s a mosh pit. He’s sipping whiskey, calm, untouchable.

Maybe we are too old for this scene. But Vice is the crown jewel of San Esteban, and if you want heat, you come here.

I’m halfway to his table when a stranger cuts me off. He stares at me like recognition’s slamming into him in real time.

“You’re him, right?” His voice carries over the music.

I let my mouth curve, but my eyes stay cool. “Depends who ‘him’ is.”

He elbows the girl clinging to his arm. “Brianna—Princess. You know that song, right?”

Her eyes blow wide, and she gasps like I’ve stepped out of her headphones. “No way. No freaking way! They just played that remix. I’m obsessed.” She fumbles in her purse, breathless. “Would you… sign something? Please? I don’t want to be rude but—oh my God—it would make my night.”

Out of the corner of my eye, Kyan watches with one arched brow, lips twitching like this is comedy theater.

“I’m actually meeting a friend—” I start, but it’s pointless. She’s already holding out a crumpled sticky note, pen shaking in her hand.

So I scrawl my name, hand it back. She squeals, clutching it like a lottery win. He pumps my hand, and they vanish, swallowed by the pulsing crowd.

Kyan laughs low as I drop into the booth opposite him. “Still got it, huh?”

“Shut up.” I rub the back of my neck, suddenly aware of how long it’s been since I put out anything new. Years of silence, but the dirty lyrics refuse to die. “I regret coming here already.”

“We could leave,” he offers, already half-standing.

I jab a finger at him. “Sit down, old man. We’re not leaving. We’re finding someone to play with.”

“Not me,” he says flatly, eyes like shuttered steel. “Not tonight.”

That’s wrong. King’s usually the one scanning, calculating, finding women with glossed smiles and restless eyes who secretly want rules carved into them. Tonight he just sits there, silent.

Before I can push, a server slides in, smile bright, eyes lingering too long on me. “What can I get for you?”

“Iced tea,” I say, matching her wink with one of my own.

She hides her disappointment like a professional. “Coming right up.”

Once she’s gone, I lean across the table. “So? What’s with you?”

“Nothing. Just not in the mood.”

I sit back, studying him. King, not in the mood, is a red flag wrapped in silk.

“You’re going to the gala solo then?” I ask.

“Probably. You bringing someone?” He takes a deliberate sip of whiskey, not meeting my eyes.

“Maybe.” My tea arrives. I wait until the server drifts away before I add, “I’m bored, King.”

“Yeah.” He exhales. “Same.”

The DJ drops one of my old tracks, slicing it with something darker. My voice—my lyrics—roll through the club, filth dressed as poetry.

Look at me, say my name

Give me your all

Your submission, my bliss

Lift up your skirt, princess

Give Daddy a kiss.

Kyan smirks, head bobbing. “Not a bad remix.”

“I’ll take it.” My eyes catch on movement across the floor—two men boxing in a brunette, their bodies a choreography of hunger. My pulse ticks faster. “Ten o’clock.”

He follows my gaze, grinning. “Yeah. That’s our language.”

But before I can keep watching, another face hooks my attention, freezing me mid-breath. “Shit. That’s Joey.”

Kyan’s smile dies. “Where?”

“Bar. Making out with the redhead.”

Kyan snaps his head, eyes widening. “The hell?”

“What?” I glance again. Joey’s lip-locked with her, nothing shocking—except Kyan’s jaw tightens, knuckles whitening around his glass.

“That’s not his girlfriend,” he mutters. “I saw him with another girl earlier. Different vibe. Serious. What the fuck is he doing?”

“Being twenty,” I say, dry.

“Being a little prick,” Kyan growls. “Can’t believe I raised him.”

“That’s because you didn’t,” I remind softly. “His mom made sure of that.”

His jaw works, but he doesn’t answer.

“Maybe it’s casual,” I offer.

“Didn’t look casual,” he snaps, eyes glued to his son.

I let him simmer, because fighting history never works.

The dance-floor threesome has vanished. Lucky them. Somewhere they’re tangled in heat while King and I sit in a booth nursing ghosts.