The notification on my phone screen was arguably the scariest thing I had seen all week. And I was a nursing student who had just spent six hours dissecting a cadaver.
ACCOUNT BALANCE: $4.12.
I stared at the number, willing it to change. Maybe if I squinted, the decimal point would move to the right. Maybe a mysterious benefactor had accidentally wired me a million dollars.
But the screen just glowed back at me, unbothered and cruel.
"Are you going to buy the coffee or just have a staring contest with it?"
I snapped my head up. The barista, a girl with piercings and zero patience, was tapping her long acrylic nail against the counter. Behind me, the line of caffeinated students was shifting restlessly.
"Sorry," I mumbled, sliding my phone into the pocket of my scrubs. "I… I actually changed my mind. I don't need it."
I needed it. I needed it like I needed oxygen. I had a Pharmacology final in forty-eight hours, and my brain felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. But $4.12 had to last me until my next shift at the diner, and I still needed to pay for the subway ride home.
I walked out of the campus café, the humid New York air hitting me like a wet towel. My feet throbbed in my worn-out sneakers. This was my life: exhaustion, flashcards, and the constant, gnawing fear that one day, the money would run out completely.
My phone buzzed again. Not the bank this time. Lila.
Lila (Future RN): Emergency. Dorm. Now.
Panic spiked in my chest. Emergency usually meant Lila had broken a nail or found a sale on shoes, but with my luck lately, it could be anything.
I texted back: I'm studying. I can't.
Lila: Correction: You are panicking. I can feel your stress hormones from here. Get over here. I have a solution.
"A solution involves money, Lila. Unless you found a way to turn pharmacology notes into cash, I'm not interested."
I dropped my backpack onto her bed, collapsing next to it. Lila was standing in front of her full-length mirror, holding up a dress that looked less like clothing and more like a whispered secret. It was midnight blue, silk, and terrifyingly short.
"Better," she said, grinning. "I found us a way into The Sanctum."
I froze. "The Sanctum? As in, the club where celebrities go to hide from the paparazzi? The place with a five-thousand-dollar table minimum?"
"The very same." She tossed the dress at me. It landed on my face, smelling like expensive fabric softener. "My cousin knows a promoter. It's a masquerade theme tonight. Masks on, identities off. Free drinks for ladies before midnight."
I pulled the dress off my face. "Lila, I have an exam. I have a tuition installment due on Friday that I don't have the money for. I can't go clubbing."
Lila sat down next to me, her voice dropping the playful tone. "Aria. You have been running on adrenaline and stale bagels for three months. You look like a ghost. Just one night. Just a few hours to pretend we aren't broke nursing students. Pretend you're someone else."
I looked at the dress. Then I looked at my reflection in the mirror, the dark circles under my eyes, the tension in my shoulders.
Someone else.
The thought was dangerously seductive. To be someone who didn't check her bank account before buying coffee. To be someone whose father wasn't gambling away their rent money.
"One night?" I asked, my voice wavering.
Lila smiled, already reaching for her makeup bag. "One night. I promise."
The bass at The Sanctum didn't just play; it vibrated through the floorboards, traveling up my legs and settling deep in my chest.
It was a different world. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and expensive cologne. The lighting was low, casting everything in shades of gold and shadow. People moved like liquid, faces hidden behind elaborate masks of feathers, velvet, and gold leaf.
I adjusted the delicate lace mask Lila had given me. It felt strange on my skin, itchy and liberating at the same time.
"Don't lose me!" Lila shouted over the music, grabbing a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.
"Lila, wait—"
But she was gone, swallowed by the crowd of dancing bodies.
I stood alone near a velvet rope, gripping my own glass like a lifeline. I took a sip. It was cold, crisp, and tasted like money. I closed my eyes for a second, letting the music wash over me, trying to drown out the voice in my head listing drug interactions for beta-blockers.
"You look like you're trying to solve a physics equation."
The voice was low. Dark. It cut through the thumping bass like a knife.
My eyes snapped open.
He was standing in the shadows of a private booth, just behind the velvet rope. He was massive, that was my first thought. He wore a tuxedo that fit him with military precision, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders. His mask was simple, matte black, covering the upper half of his face, but it did nothing to soften the hard line of his jaw or the severe cut of his mouth.
He wasn't dancing. He was watching. And he was watching me.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. "Pharmacology, actually."
A corner of his mouth quirked up. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a wolf spotting a lamb that had wandered too far from the flock.
"Pharmacology," he repeated. The word sounded different when he said it. "Studying the effects of poisons? Or antidotes?"
He stepped over the velvet rope. The crowd seemed to part for him instinctively, sensing a predator in their midst. He stopped inches from me. He smelled of aged scotch, leather, and danger.
I should have stepped back. My instincts honed by years of navigating New York alone were screaming at me to run. Dangerous. Too old. Too rich. Too much.
But my feet wouldn't move.
"Depends on the dose," I managed to say, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze through the mask holes. His eyes were dark, unreadable pools.
"Everything is a poison if you take too much," he murmured, his voice dropping to a rough whisper that vibrated against my skin. "Even this."
He reached out. His hand was large, warm, encompassing. He didn't touch me, not really. He just traced the air near my cheek, the heat of his skin radiating onto mine.
"Even what?" I breathed.
"Desire," he said.
The word hung between us, heavy and electric. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I had never felt small before, but standing in his shadow, I felt tiny. And fragile.
"You don't belong here, little girl," he said softly. "This place... it has teeth."
"I can handle myself," I lied.
He laughed, a dark, low sound that made my knees weak. "Can you?"
He stepped closer, invading my personal space completely. His hand moved to my waist, his grip firm, possessive, burning through the thin silk of my dress.
"Then why are you trembling?"
He didn't give me a chance to answer. He leaned down, blocking out the lights, the music, the crowd. There was only him. The heat of his body. The scent of him.
"Run," he whispered against my lips, a warning wrapped in a temptation. "Run before I decide not to let you go."
I stared up at him, paralyzed by a hunger I didn't know I had. I should run. I knew I should run.
But for one reckless, insane second, I didn't want to be saved.
I leaned in.