Sparkle's POV
The Club is a dream of light and sound, hitting me like a wave the second Michelle and I step inside. The club is a cavernous space, all sleek black walls and pulsing neon electric blues and purples streaking across the ceiling, synced to the thumping bass that rattles my bones. The dance floor sprawls in the center, a sea of bodies moving under a massive chandelier that drips crystals, scattering light like a disco ball on steroids. Booths line the edges, their leather seats glowing faintly under recessed lights, and a spiral staircase in the corner leads to a roped-off VIP section overlooking the chaos. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and something sweet, maybe spilled cocktails. It's overwhelming, alive, and for a moment, I want to shrink back into Michelle's dorm and hide.
Michelle's hand tightens on my arm, pulling me forward with that unstoppable energy of hers.
"Come on, Sparkles, let's own this place!" she shouts over the music, her red dress catching the neon glow as she weaves us through the crowd. My emerald dress feels too tight, too bold, but the way it moves with me makes me stand a little straighter. My silver heels click against the polished floor, and I try to ignore the nervous flutter in my stomach.
As we pass the VIP section, I glance up, and my breath catches. A guy lounges against the railing, all sharp jawline and effortless confidence, his dark hair tousled just right. He's in a tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled up to show tanned forearms, and there's something magnetic about him, like he commands the room without trying. Our eyes meet for a split second his are a piercing hazel, intense even in the dim light and my heart stutters. He doesn't smile, just holds my gaze before turning back to his group, and I'm left feeling like I've been caught staring. I shake it off, heat creeping up my neck, and hurry to keep up with Michelle.
We reach the bar, a sleek counter lit from below with a soft purple glow, bottles glittering like jewels behind the bartenders. Michelle leans in, ordering us something called a "Midnight Fire" her voice is all mischief, promising trouble. The bartender slides two glasses our way, the drinks a deep ruby red with a faint shimmer, like they're alive. I hesitate, but Michelle raises her glass, grinning.
"To new beginnings, babe. Screw Mat." I clink my glass against hers, the burn of the liquor hitting my throat like a spark. It's strong, sweet with a bitter edge, and it warms me from the inside out, loosening the knot in my chest.
Michelle grabs my hand, pulling me to the dance floor. The music shifts, a pulsing EDM track that vibrates through my veins, and we start moving. At first, I'm stiff, hyper-aware of the crowd, the lights, the eyes that might be watching. But Michelle's infectious, spinning and swaying in her red dress, her laughter cutting through the noise.
"Let go, Sparkles!" she yells, and something in me cracks open. The drink buzzes in my blood, the beat takes over, and I start to dance, really dance. My hips sway, my arms lift, and my hair swings around me like a fiery curtain. The pain of Mat, the sting of Joana's smirk, it all fades under the weight of the music and the moment.
I spin, laughing, my dress catching the light, and for the first time in weeks, I feel alive. The crowd blurs into a kaleidoscope of color and motion, and it's just me and Michelle, lost in the rhythm, untouchable. I'm not broken, not tonight. I'm Sparkles, and I'm burning bright.
~
Lee's POV
I'm still buzzing from the adrenaline of nearly missing my flight when I step off the plane in Burlington, Vermont a city that's got just enough polish to feel upscale. The private jet was supposed to make this trip smooth, but a last-minute board meeting in New York had me sprinting through JFK, my leather duffel slung over my shoulder, cursing the traffic that almost cost me my best friend's graduation. Bryson's waiting at baggage claim, his grin wide as ever, wearing a fitted blazer and jeans, looking every bit the newly minted grad.
"Knox, you bastard, thought you'd bail on me," he says, clapping me on the back.
"Miss your big day? Never," I shoot back, though my smirk hides the fact that I'm still catching my breath. We pile into his sleek black Audi, and he's already talking about The Pulse, some hotspot club where the whole graduating class is headed.
"Gonna be wild, man. Drinks, girls, the works. You in?" he asks, like he needs to. I'm Lee Knox billionaire heir, serial heartbreaker, always up for a good time. I nod, leaning back as the city lights streak by, ready to lose myself in the night.
The Pulse hits like a sensory overload. Black walls pulse with neon blues and purples slicing through the dark, synced to a bassline that thumps in my chest. The place is packed, bodies writhing on the dance floor under a crystal chandelier that throws light like shattered stars. We head straight for the VIP section, a raised platform with a perfect view of the chaos below. I lean against the railing, a whiskey in hand, scanning the crowd. That's when I see her.
She walks in, all fire and grace, her emerald dress catching every light in the room. Her red hair flows like a cascade of flames, and there's something about her a spark, a pull that makes it hard to look away. She's with a friend in a red dress, but it's her I can't stop studying. The way she moves, hesitant at first, like she's carrying something heavy, but then she laughs, and it's like the whole club brightens. Our eyes meet for a moment, and hers are green, sharp, holding a story I want to unravel. My pulse kicks up, and I don't even realize I'm staring until Bryson nudges me.
"Lee, meet Vanessa," he says, gesturing to a blonde model type who's sidled up to our table, all long legs and glossy lips. She's stunning, the kind of woman I'd usually have on my arm by now, but I barely glance at her. "Hey," I say, my voice flat, and turn back to the dance floor. Vanessa huffs, but I don't care. The redhead's dancing now, her body swaying to the beat, her dress hugging curves that make my mouth go dry. She's letting go, losing herself in the music, and I'm captivated, my grip tightening on my glass.
I'm on my third whiskey, the buzz settling in, when I see her slip away from the dance floor, heading toward the bathrooms down a dimly lit hall. A guy some sleaze in a too-tight shirt peels off from the crowd, following her with a look that sets my jaw tight. I don't think, just move, brushing past Bryson's questioning glance. "Be right back," I mutter, already halfway down the stairs.
The hallway's narrow, neon flickering overhead. I catch up just as the guy grabs her arm, his voice low and slimy.
"Hey, gorgeous, why're you running off?" She yanks free, her eyes flashing with defiance, but he steps closer, blocking her path. My blood boils, and before I know it, my fist connects with his jaw. He stumbles back, cursing, and I grab his collar, shoving him against the wall.
"Back off," I growl, my voice low and dangerous. He scrambles away, muttering, and I turn to her.
She's staring at me, her chest heaving, those green eyes wide but not scared alive, electric.
"You okay?" I ask, my voice softer now, the whiskey and adrenaline making my head swim. She nods, biting her lip, and something snaps between us. The air's thick, charged, and I step closer, drawn to her like gravity. "I'm Lee," I say, and she murmurs, "Sparkles," her voice husky, her cheeks flushed from dancing and whatever she's been drinking.
We're both drunk, reckless, and before I can overthink it, I'm kissing her, hard and hungry, right there in the hallway. She kisses me back, her hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer. It's a rush, a wildfire, and I don't want to stop.
"My hotel's close," I whisper against her lips, and she nods, her eyes dark with want.