Chapter 2 2

Damian's pov

I've always hated crowds.

Not just the noise, or the sweat, or the stench of perfume that smells more like poison than roses. It's the chaos of it. Too many moving parts, too many unknowns, too many eyes pretending not to watch you while secretly judging you.

Which, of course, is why my brother thought dragging me here was the cure for all my problems.

"Loosen up," Marco had said, practically ripping me out of the apartment like I was his teenage kid instead of his younger brother who could easily put a bullet through anyone that touched me the wrong way.

Now I'm standing in some underground club where masks are mandatory and dignity is optional, wondering why I didn't just slam the door in his face.

"Tell me this isn't hell," I mutter, tugging at the black mask biting into my cheek.

Marco grins at me like the bastard he is. "Relax, Damian. Try not to look like you're plotting someone's death."

I cut him a side glance. "Who says I'm not?"

That makes him laugh. He always laughs at my threats, like he thinks I'm joking. Most people don't.

We move through the crowd, neon lights spilling over a sea of bodies grinding to a bassline that rattles my ribs. Marco looks like he belongs here confident, at ease, smiling that smile that makes people trust him instantly. Me? I'm already mapping exits, counting heads, memorizing the kind of men I'd need to drop first if things went bad.

"Over there," Marco nods to a velvet-rope VIP booth. "Drinks first."

He orders us both shots. He downs his immediately, while mine sits untouched on the table. I don't like losing control. Alcohol is a weakness dressed in glass.

That's when I hear it.

Not the music. Not the fake laughter. Something softer.

A laugh. Light. Careless. The kind of sound that doesn't belong in a place like this.

My head turns before I even realize it, eyes finding the stage.

And then I see her.

She doesn't look like the others. Everyone else is trying too hard, hips desperate, hands reaching, movements built to beg. She isn't. Her black mask is simple, almost plain, but somehow it makes her stand out more. Like she doesn't need glitter or sequins to own the room.

The way she moves is sharp, controlled, fluid it's not about seduction. It's about power. She moves like the music belongs to her, like everyone else is just trespassing. Men at the front wave cash, desperate for her attention. She doesn't bend down. Doesn't even blink at them.

Cold. Untouchable.

And suddenly, I can't look away.

Marco follows my stare and groans. "Oh no. Not her."

"What about her?" My tone is flat, but my chest feels too tight.

"She doesn't do private sessions. Trust me, I asked last time. Management keeps her on stage because she makes money, not because she's available."

I lean back, eyes glued to her anyway. "Everyone's available. It's just a matter of price."

"Not her," Marco insists, voice sharp for once. "She's... different."

He doesn't get it. I don't care if she's "different." I care that for the first time in a long time, something someone has cut through the haze I live in.

The lights catch on the sheen of sweat at her collarbone the flex of her ribs when she breathes, the hint of a tattoo slipping from beneath her costume. I can't make out the ink, but I want to. I want to lean close enough to see the whole thing. To trace it with my fingers.

My fists curl before I realize it.

"Damian," Marco warns quietly, seeing the look in my eyes. "Don't. She'll ruin you."

I force a smirk. "Maybe I'll ruin her."

He doesn't laugh this time. That's fine. I wasn't joking.

Her set ends. She bows not low, never submissive then slips behind the curtain, vanishing like smoke.

The room feels emptier without her.

Marco is chatting with some girl who slid into our booth, but I don't hear a word. My mind is already behind that curtain, following her shadow.

Who is she?

Why is she here?

And why the hell does it feel like the entire world just shifted around her?

For the first time in years, I'm grateful Marco dragged me out tonight. Because if he hadn't, I never would've seen her.

And now that I have...

She's mine. She just doesn't know it yet.

I watched, and I resented the ease with which my heart responded. A man who's seen a thousand scenes should not be surprised by beauty. But there's beauty and then there's something that puts you under its teeth. Her hips turned like a metronome, precise and sensual at once. The tattoo at the small of her back flashed like a secret between pulses of light.

People whispered. Men dumped cash into the stage. The entire room seemed to inhale when she danced. And I of all people found my breath tightening, as if I had been holding it without realizing.

"She's a favorite," Marco said softly. "Everyone has their favorites."

I felt a flash of some unnameable thing, ownership, perhaps, or curiosity and I felt it lash across my ribs because it was surprisingly animal. I did not like being moved by a stranger.

When the set ended, Marco clapped with that ridiculous sincerity of his, as if applause could stitch the seams of the world. The girl the mask bowed without showing her face, and then she moved away.

I asked Marco the name, but the man who knows everything shrugged. "People talk. Owners watch. Girls stay girls. Don't put a name on her."

But I do things I don't name often because naming feels like choosing. I don't choose easily.

The rest of the night blurred into loudness. I drank more than I should have just enough to blur the edges of the day but not enough to let myself fall apart in front of men who measure weakness like profit margins.

At one point, when I stepped outside to let the air hit me, Marco followed and caught my shoulder. He looked at me like he used to when we were boys and I think I think he felt responsible for making me breathe. "Don't let whatever they say become the thing you think," he told me. "You're more than the suit, Dam. Don't be afraid to be small sometimes."

I wanted to tell him that being small got people killed.

Instead I let the silence between men hold us. Then we went back inside.

I kept thinking about the girl with the mask. There was something too deliberate in the way she refused the men who pressed for private sessions. She had a boundary and she kept it like armor. It made me respect her because boundaries are rarer than debts in this world.

The last drink I had was kind of sour...I raised my glass to the empty space next to me and swallowed whatever warmth was left. The band changed tempo. And in the space where the music swelled, I promised myself I would find out who she was.

Not because I wanted to own her. I am not that naive but because I wanted to understand what it was about her that made the room hold its breath. A curiosity, a fissure. A thing that could not be left unnamed.

I had never been good at leaving things unknown