LARA'S POV
The bass from XS is a physical thing. It doesn't just hit my ears; it slams into my chest, a relentless, vibrating hammer that pounds against my ribcage.
The air is thick with the smell of expensive cologne, sweat, and the cloying sweetness of spilled cocktails. Strobing lights cut through the haze, illuminating flashes of desperate faces and grinding bodies.
And for the first time in years, I am not just breathing this air—I am consuming it.
'This is what it feels like to not think. This is what it feels like to be a body, not a brain. No board meetings. No dying fathers. No gilded cages. Just this… this beautiful, mindless noise.'
The third tequila shot of the night burns a path down my throat, and I welcome the fire. It's a cleansing flame, scouring away the last remnants of my father's voice, of my own dutiful echo—I know, Father. Each drink is a step further away from that room, from that life. I feel myself unraveling, and God, it feels fucking good.
Medley materializes beside me, a whirlwind of energy, her face flushed with vodka and victory. She leans in, her shout a hot blast in my ear. "Look what I snagged from Ronnie's wallet!" She waves a sleek, black American Express card in front of my face. "The bastard owes me for putting up with his… inspiration."
She grins, a wicked, glorious thing. "Tonight, we're spending his blood money on everything that sparkles."
A laugh bubbles out of me, raw and real. It feels foreign on my tongue. "He's going to lose his mind."
"Let him!" she yells back, grabbing my hand. "Come on! Chloe and Sophia are by the main bar, and we're buying!"
We carve a path through the pulsating crowd, Medley leading the charge with the confidence of a general. The world is a blur of neon and sequins.
I catch a glimpse of us in a mirrored column—Medley, a vibrant flame in her emerald green dress, and me, a shadow in my little black Saint Laurent, finally coming to life.
We find our college friends crammed into a velvet booth, already a few rounds deep. There's a shriek of greeting, a flurry of air kisses that don't quite connect.
"Lara! Oh my God, you actually came out!" Chloe screams, her words slightly slurred. "What's the occasion? Finally sell that boring company?"
'If only it were that simple. If only the occasion wasn't a desperate, clawing need to feel something before I completely die in my father's tomb.'
I just smile, a loose, easy gesture that doesn't reach the part of me that's always calculating. "Just felt like a night out."
Medley, already flagging down a bottle service girl, slaps the black card on the table. "The occasion is my best friend's rebirth! And my boyfriend's wallet! Drink up, bitches!"
We fall into the familiar rhythm of random, shouted conversation—who's fucking who, who got a new job, the absurd price of a bottle of Ace of Spades.
For a few minutes, I can almost pretend I'm normal. That my last name doesn't come with a body count.
It's Sophia who breaks the illusion. She leans across the table, her eyes wide with a drunken, conspiratorial gleam. "Lara, don't look now, but holy shit. There is a guy at the VIP rail, second floor, who has been mentally fucking you for the last ten minutes."
A cold trickle, sharp and sobering, slides down my spine despite the tequila.
And there it is. The other side of the coin. The price of being seen. Not as a person, but a thing to be stared at, dissected, desired. Another predator in the jungle my father warned me about.
I force myself not to turn. I take a slow sip of my drink, the ice clinking a fragile sound against the roaring bass. "There's always one," I say, my voice deliberately flat. "Yet another fucking reason I don't come to these things. I'm not here to be someone's fantasy."
Medley laughs, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "Oh, lighten up! He's probably just appreciating the view. And honey, with that ass in that dress, the view is a five-star Michelin experience." She squeezes me. "Let them look. Let them want. You're a Vik-cross. You're untouchable."
'Untouchable. The word echoes hollowly. That's the whole problem, isn't it? I'm so untouchable I'm starting to forget what it feels like to be touched. To be truly wanted, not just strategically acquired.'
But the moment passes. The tequila reclaims its territory, blurring the sharp edges of my paranoia.
Sophia and Chloe are already onto the next topic, and Medley is ordering another round of shots, Ronnie's black card held aloft like a trophy.
I let the music pull me back under. I let the laughter of my friends wash over me.
'For tonight, I am just a girl in a club. For tonight, I will dance in the devil's playground and pretend I don't smell the sulfur.'
– – –
Numbness is my new best friend.
It's a warm, fuzzy blanket wrapped around my brain, smothering every last shred of caution my father ever drilled into me.
I lost count after the ninth or tenth flute of champagne, the bubbles now just a static fizz in my veins. The world is a beautiful, swirling blur of colored lights and pounding bass.
'This is freedom. This is what it feels like to not give a single fuck. To be a normal, just a body, moving to a rhythm that has nothing to do with stock prices.'
A stranger's hands are on my hips, his grip possessive, his breath hot and beer-soaked against my neck. He's some finance bro, all gelled hair and a too-tight shirt, and he's been grinding against me like he owns the space I occupy.
And right now, I'm letting him. Because his hands, rough and demanding, feel so fucking right. They are an anchor in this sea of numbness, a proof that I can still feel something.
Suddenly, Medley is there, her face cutting through the haze. She looks annoyed, buzzing with a different kind of energy. She grabs my arm, her fingers digging in.
"Lara, come on! Ronnie's five minutes out and he's pissed. We gotta go, now."
The spell shatters. The music suddenly feels too loud, the lights too aggressive. The finance bro gives a grunt of protest as Medley yanks me away from him.
"My knight in shining armor," I slur, the words thick on my tongue. The numbness is receding, leaving a dull, pounding headache in its wake.
"Your knight is going to have an aneurysm if we're not at the curb," she snaps, dragging me through the thinning crowd toward a side exit.
The cool night air hits me like a physical slap as we stumble out of a service door. It's a shock to the system, the neon glow of the Strip a contrast to the club's dark womb.
"I… I think I'm gonna be sick," I mumble, my stomach lurching. I need a second. Just a second to breathe.
"Not here, Lara. Come on!" Medley urges, but I pull my arm away.
"Just… give me a minute. I'll meet you at the front." I don't wait for her answer, stumbling away from the main throng of people, around a corner, seeking a sliver of darkness and quiet.
I find myself in a narrow alleyway, a grimy backstage to the 'city' glittering performance. The air smells of rotting garbage and stale urine.
I lean against the cold brick wall, closing my eyes, trying to steady my spinning head.
That's when I hear it. A wet, guttural sound. A choke.
My eyes fly open.
Under the sickly yellow glow of a single, flickering security light, I see them. Two figures. One, a man in a cheap suit, is slumping to the ground, his hands clutching his neck.
But it's too late. A dark, glistening river is already pouring between his fingers, staining his white shirt a violent, liquid black.
The other man is still standing. Tall. Impossibly still. He's dressed in head-to-toe black, his posture one of cold, effortless power.
And then he turns his head.
His eyes find mine.
The world stops. The distant thump of the club's music vanishes. The rustle of the city dies. The only sound is the roaring silence, a presence so heavy it presses against my eardrums.
Internal Monologue: Oh, God. Oh, fuck.
His eyes aren't wild. They aren't angry. They are… assessing. Calculating. They are the color of a winter storm, and they strip me bare, taking in my expensive dress, my heels, my sheer, stupid vulnerability. He doesn't look startled. He looks… interested.
'He's not looking at a person. He's looking at a witness. A problem. A loose end. And he's deciding how to tie it up.'
I am frozen.
A statue of a girl who thought she wanted to see the real world. My breath is trapped in my lungs. I can't scream. I can't move.
Before a single word can be uttered, before he can take a single step, Medley's voice cuts through the deadly quiet from the alley's mouth.
"Lara! What the hell are you doing? Come on, he's waiting!"
She hasn't seen it. She's missed the body crumpled on the ground. She's missed the man with the stormy eyes and the blood on his hands.
His gaze flicks from me to the sound of her voice, then back to me. A silent, terrifying communication passes between us. A stay of execution.
Medley grabs my arm again, this time with impatience. "Jesus, you're a mess. Let's go."
She pulls, and my body finally obeys, stumbling backwards, my eyes locked with his until the very last second, when the corner of the building obscures him from view.
But I know.
'He saw me. I saw him. And that look in his eyes… it wasn't a goodbye. It was a promise.'