The night smelled of perfume, smoke, and gasoline.
In the heart of the city, where neon lights painted the glass towers red and blue, a line of cars worth more than most people's lives purred outside Club Vyxen. Rolls-Royce, Lamborghini, Bentley, Ferrari—each polished so sharp the street lamps looked like diamonds in their reflections.
And stepping out of the black Rolls, like the queen of chaos herself, was Pebbles Harrington.
Her heels hit the pavement like they owned it. Six inches of red-bottom Louboutins. A satin dress clung to her like liquid fire, slit high enough to make men swallow their drinks before they even reached the club door. A Cartier bracelet glimmered on her wrist, next to a Rolex iced with diamonds.
At twenty-three, she was richer than some CEOs and more dangerous than all of them.
Everyone knew her name. Everyone whispered it. Some adored her. Most feared her.
She didn't care.
Pebbles had a rule: Men are toys. You play with them, break them, throw them away.
The bouncer bowed low as he opened the door.
"Good evening, Miss Harrington."
She didn't reply. She didn't need to.
Inside, the bass throbbed like a heartbeat. Strobe lights chased shadows across velvet couches where the city's spoiled heirs drowned themselves in liquor. Cigarette smoke curled above crystal chandeliers.
Pebbles walked through the chaos like it was her runway. Heads turned. Girls glared. Men lost their balance just staring.
She smiled. One of those smiles that promised heaven but led to hell.
He was waiting at her table already—a man in his thirties, Armani suit, jaw clenched like he was negotiating a billion-dollar deal. Only this deal was worse.
"Pebbles," he said, standing, almost bowing. "I—I sold the beach house. Here." He slid an envelope across the table.
She didn't even look inside. She knew it was money. It always was.
"You really did it?" Her voice was soft, a melody dipped in poison.
"For you. Always for you."
She leaned closer, perfume wrapping him like a leash. "Sweetheart, you're learning. But…" she tapped the table with her manicured finger, click, click, click. "…love isn't about houses. It's about devotion. Would you bleed for me?"
His throat bobbed. He nodded.
She kissed his cheek lightly—just enough to send him spinning deeper into her gravity well—and then dismissed him with a flick of her wrist.
"Now leave. Tonight isn't yours."
Like a trained dog, he obeyed.
Pebbles laughed under her breath. Too easy. Too boring.
Her crew found her soon after. Three girls dressed in Versace and Chanel, champagne glasses in hand, all spoiled heiresses and trust-fund rebels like her.
"Pebbles, you're wicked," one giggled. "That man would sell his lungs if you told him to."
"He might," Pebbles said, eyes flashing. "Maybe I'll ask tomorrow."
The table roared with laughter. Cameras flashed. Someone took a video—it would hit TikTok in an hour with captions like Queen Pebbles breaks another man's heart. She didn't mind. She liked the fame. Infamy was just fame with sharper teeth.
The girls weren't alone for long. At the bar waited four boys dressed like money had never been a problem—designer jackets, platinum watches, sneakers that cost more than some people's rent.
Among them was Jaden Lowell. Everyone in the city knew his last name. His father owned shipping ports, airlines, half the skyline. He was tall, too polished to belong in chaos, but he came anyway, shadowed by three friends who carried themselves like they were guarding royalty.
Rumor had it Jaden liked Pebbles. He never showed it, not outright. His words to her were calm, measured, as if he'd practiced being neutral. But his eyes lingered longer than they should. Pebbles noticed. She always noticed.
Tonight, she let her smile graze him, brief and sharp, before turning her attention back to her champagne. She wasn't here for him.
She was here for the game.
By the corner booth sat the people who weren't supposed to be here—men and women she owed nothing but scars to. Debt collectors, failed partners, wolves dressed in cheap leather while she and her circle glistened in diamonds.
At the center of them was a girl. Kira.
Dark hair, lean body, leather pants, no apology in her stare. If Pebbles was the queen of rebellion, Kira was the street princess who wanted her throne. Not as rich. Not as famous. But just as vicious.
Pebbles tilted her head toward them, her earrings catching the strobe lights.
"Let's say hello."
Her girls squealed. The boys looked uneasy, except Jaden, whose calm cracked just slightly at the corner of his jaw.
Still, they followed.
Kira didn't stand when Pebbles approached. She smirked, raising her glass like a toast.
"Pebbles Harrington. Thought queens didn't crawl down to play with rats."
Pebbles laughed, sweet and venomous. "Oh, darling, I don't play with rats. I feed them poison."
Her girls burst into giggles. One of Jaden's friends muttered something under his breath.
The tension was thick enough to choke on. A crowd began to edge closer, phones lifted, hungry for drama.
"You still owe me," Kira said flatly. "And I don't wait forever."
Pebbles sipped her drink slowly, never breaking eye contact. "If you're so desperate, maybe you should beg. Crawl. Or sell yourself to someone who cares."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Kira's smile vanished. Her hand twitched toward her jacket.
Pebbles saw it. So did everyone else.
The first shot was a warning. A deafening crack that silenced the club. People screamed, glasses shattered, champagne spilled across the marble.
Then chaos erupted.
Pebbles' boys pulled guns from under their jackets. Kira's crew did the same. Strobe lights painted the scene in white and blood-red as bullets tore into velvet couches and mirrored walls.
Pebbles crouched, heels slipping on the wet floor, a grin tugging at her lips even as adrenaline pounded through her veins. She fired once, twice, the recoil steady in her hand. She was chaos. She was alive.
Until pain bloomed hot in her shoulder.
She gasped, staggered, red soaking into the silk of her dress. Her glass shattered as she dropped it.
For the first time, Pebbles Harrington stumbled.
Her friends screamed, but none came back. Jaden moved half a step toward her, panic breaking his mask, before his friends dragged him away.
"The cops!" one hissed. "We'll all go down—leave her!"
He resisted for a heartbeat. Pebbles' gaze locked on his, a plea buried in her fury. But his friends pulled harder, and he let go.
Kira, already fleeing with her debtors, looked back once. Her eyes met Pebbles'. Rivalry. Victory. Then she was gone.
The music had stopped. Only sirens approached now, their wails cutting through the night.
And Pebbles lay bleeding on the floor, the queen of chaos abandoned by her court.
Footsteps. Not running away—running toward.
A shadow bent over her. Strong arms lifted her gently, carrying her weight as if she were glass.
Pebbles' vision blurred, but she caught the face. Younger than the rest. Nineteen. Not one of her rebels, not one of her toys. His eyes weren't greedy. They weren't afraid. They were steady.
"Hold on," he whispered, his voice low and urgent.
And she did. For the first time in her life, she let herself.
When she opened her eyes, it wasn't the club, and it wasn't her mansion.
The room was small. Plain walls. A faint smell of medicine. Her shoulder throbbed beneath tight bandages.
She sat up too quickly and winced. The silk dress was gone, replaced by a loose shirt.
And there he was—the boy.
Not hiding. Not running. Just watching her from across the room, his posture calm, as if he had all the time in the world.
"You're awake," he said simply.
Pebbles stared at him, confusion colliding with something she didn't recognize. Something fragile.
The girl who played with men's souls had just been saved by one who wasn't afraid to keep his own.
And she hated it.
To be continued…