Roisin's POV

The taxi rolls to a stop in front of Grey, and my stomach flips.

The building towers above us, all sleek glass and silver light. The bass from inside thrums through the ground, deep enough to feel in my chest. People in glittering clothes wait in a long line that snakes around the corner.

Nichole whistles. "Now this is a club."

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," I mutter, tugging down the hem of my red dress. The fabric clings in ways I'm not used to. "We look ridiculous."

"We look fabulous," she corrects, checking her lipstick in her phone screen. "Just breathe, Rose. One drink, one dance, and if you hate it, we'll leave."

I doubt that, but I follow her anyway.

At the door, the bouncer doesn't even glance at me—his eyes are on Nichole. She leans close, whispers a name, and he nods, unhooking the velvet rope. Just like that, we're inside.

The air hits me like a wave of heat and perfume. Lights shift from violet to gold across a crowded room, catching sequins, skin, champagne. The DJ stands on a high platform, head down, hands moving over a glowing board. The beat pulses through everything—the floor, the glasses, my pulse.

Nichole grabs my hand and spins me around. "Isn't this amazing?"

"It's loud," I say, raising my voice over the music.

"Exactly!" she shouts, laughing.

At the bar, we order drinks. She starts talking to a tall blond guy before I can even sit down. Within minutes, there's another one leaning in on her other side. She's glowing—this is her element.

I sip my drink and stare into the crowd. Everyone here looks like they belong. Confident. Perfect. Unreal.

And then—someone bumps into me. Hard. My drink splashes onto my hand.

"Oh, sorry—" I start, but stop when I see him.

He's tall, dark suit, expression carved from stone. His eyes are sharp, narrowed—not angry exactly, but assessing, like he's used to people getting out of his way.

"Watch where you're going," he says, voice low but edged.

Heat floods my face. "I said I was sorry."

He looks down at me properly then, eyes flicking over my face, the mess of my hair, the red dress. Something in his expression shifts—still cool, but curious. "You shouldn't stand in the middle of the floor if you're not dancing."

"I wasn't—" I bite back the rest, swallow, and step aside. "Never mind."

I turn away, heart thudding too hard, trying to disappear into the crowd.

Nichole appears out of nowhere, laughing, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. "Relax, babe! You need another drink."

"I'm fine," I mumble.

But I glance back—and he's still watching me. That same unreadable expression, now with a trace of a smirk, like he's already decided I'm amusing. He raises a glass slightly in my direction before turning away to talk to someone in a tailored suit.

The nerve.

I focus on Nichole's chatter, but my mind keeps drifting back to him. Every time I scan the room, I catch glimpses—his dark hair, the glint of his watch, the way people move aside when he walks past.

Nichole pulls another guy onto the dance floor. "Come on, Rose!" she calls over her shoulder.

I shake my head, but she's gone.

For a moment, I just stand there, alone amid strangers and flashing lights. The crowd surges, the music deepens, and I can't tell if it's excitement or panic twisting inside me.

I decide to get some air. Turning toward the bar, I collide with someone again—his chest, solid and warm.

Strong hands catch my arms before I can stumble.

"Are you following me now?" That voice again—dry, amused this time.

I look up, breathless. "Apparently, I'm just a magnet for trouble tonight."

His mouth curves, almost a smile. "Seems that way."