POV: Julian Black
Velvet Pulse was alive.
The bass throbbed through the floor like a heartbeat, and the lights painted the crowd in flashes of violet and gold. My club was packed—again. Celebrities, influencers, trust fund kids pretending they were wild. Everyone wanted to be seen. Everyone wanted to be remembered.
I just wanted silence.
I leaned against the balcony railing, watching the chaos below. My name was on the marquee outside. My face was on the flyers. But none of it felt like mine anymore.
"Still brooding?" Ethan asked, sliding beside me with two glasses of whiskey.
I took one. "I'm not brooding. I'm observing."
"Same thing," he said, sipping. "Except one makes you look mysterious, and the other makes you look like you need therapy."
Ethan Cole. Psychologist by day, realist by night. He was the only person in my circle who didn't care about the spotlight. Which made him dangerous. And useful.
"Rachel showed up at the gala," I said.
"I saw," he replied. "She's trending. Again."
"She's unraveling."
"You're the thread she keeps pulling."
I didn't respond. Because he was right. And because I didn't know how to stop being the thread.
---
We moved to the private lounge upstairs. Porter was already there, curled up on the velvet couch, laughing with two models I didn't recognize. She waved when she saw me.
"Julian! Come rescue me from these TikTok philosophers."
I gave her a half-smile. "Only if you promise not to post about it."
She winked. "No promises."
Ethan sat beside me, watching the room like he was studying a case file. "You ever think about leaving all this?" he asked.
"What, the club?"
"The noise. The image. The Julian Black brand."
I looked around. The room was full of people who knew my name but not my story. That was the point.
"I built this," I said. "It's mine."
"Is it?" he asked. "Or is it just the armor you wear so no one sees the cracks?"
I stared at him. "You're not drinking enough to talk like that."
He shrugged. "I'm just saying—maybe the reason you don't do relationships isn't because you're afraid of love. Maybe it's because you're afraid of being known."
---
Later, I wandered down to the main floor. The crowd parted for me like I was royalty. I hated it. I loved it. I didn't know anymore.
That's when I saw her.
She was standing near the bar, back turned, wearing red. Not just a dress—a warning. Her hair was loose, her posture relaxed, but there was something about her that made the air shift.
She wasn't looking around like she was impressed. She was looking around like she was bored.
She was with another woman—petite, stylish, laughing too loudly. But the one in red didn't laugh. She just watched.
I didn't know her name.
But I knew trouble when I saw it.
And trouble had never looked so tempting.
---