Fiona's gaze snapped and locked.
There he was.
Cutting through the VIP room like a spark to gasoline. Tall. Dark. Strikingly handsome. Built like pure power wrapped in skin, every step hitting the beat with flawless precision. No pause. No hesitation. He owned the rhythm, shoulders rolling, body moving, lips syncing effortlessly to the music as he came straight for their table like he'd already decided this was his space.
The energy shifted instantly. Heads turned. The air tightened.
Then boom.
The leather sofa dipped hard, letting out a deep groan as Ludacris dropped into it, all weight and presence, claiming the seat like a king taking his throne. He leaned back, arm thrown across the backrest, eyes sweeping the table in one sharp, unimpressed glance.
A split second.
Then the smirk hit quickly, dangerously.
"Wassup, my niggas," he shot out, voice smooth but loud enough to cut through the bass. "Yo—why's the table empty?"
Fiona's eyes swept across the table and paused.
