Cynthia
The music hits me first—low, pulsing, confident—like the room itself has a heartbeat. Light spills across the party floor in soft blues and golds, catching sequins, glass rims, moving shoulders. The air smells like citrus and something expensive I can't name, but beneath it there's a faint tang—metallic, almost bitter, like tension waiting to snap. A waiter slips past with a tray, eyes already tired, probably counting minutes till closing.
Outside, engines rev and fade as motorists rush the night. Inside, everyone is pretending nothing can touch them. I straighten my dress and exhale. Tonight, I am touching everything. And yet… not everything is mine to touch.
"Relax," my friend Maya says, laughing as she tugs me forward. She's twenty-six, all sharp eyeliner and confidence, a publicist who believes life is meant to be lived loudly. "You look like you're about to negotiate a hostage release."
"I am the hostage," I mutter. Then I grin, though the prickle on my neck refuses to fade. "But fine. I'll behave."
We move deeper into the crowd. A DJ—Kelvin, mid-thirties, shaved head, laser-focused—nods along as he blends tracks. Security guards in dark suits line the walls, scanning with bored precision. Their eyes flick too often, too sharply. This place runs on rules. I can feel them humming beneath the bass. But there's another rhythm under it—a pulse that doesn't belong to music, one that makes the hairs on my arms bristle.
I tell myself I don't care. I care a little.
A familiar prickle crawls up my neck. I scan the room and freeze—just for a breath. There. Near the bar. The woman. She wears a sleek black dress, hair pinned neatly, but a nose mask hides the lower half of her face. Her eyes skim the room like a ledger, precise and unyielding. Every movement is measured. I don't know her. I don't know her intentions. But I know she's watching.
"Earth to Cynthia," Maya says, bumping my shoulder. "Drink?"
"Yes," I say too quickly. "Please. Immediately."
We flag a waiter. Jonah, early twenties, nervous smile, hands a little too steady. He nods, asks what we want. I order something light—grapefruit, ice, the usual. He moves off, weaving through bodies with practiced speed. I decide to let the thought of her go. I decide to dance.
The floor is warm. The beat rises. But somewhere, under it all, there's a shadow brushing past the music, threading through the crowd like it knows exactly where I am.
A guy steps into my space with a smile that's easy and harmless.
Ethan, maybe twenty-eight, graphic designer energy, earnest eyes. He asks if I want to dance like it's a question with an obvious answer.
"Sure," I say. "But I warn you—I'm enthusiastic, not skilled."
He laughs. "Same."
We move. I let the music take my shoulders, my hips. Laughter bubbles up, real and unplanned. Oops. I nearly step on his foot.
"Sorry," I say.
"No complaints," he says, then glances past me and stiffens—just a flicker. Weird.
I don't follow his gaze.
I dance harder.
Somewhere behind us, a chair scrapes. A guard murmurs into his sleeve. The air shifts—subtle, like a door closing you didn't hear open.
I feel him before I see him.
The room seems to make space. Not loudly. Efficiently.
He stands near the edge of the floor, posture relaxed, hands loose at his sides. Dark jacket. Calm eyes. The kind of calm that doesn't ask permission. He's not smiling. He doesn't have to.
My pulse stumbles.
Ethan's hand slips from my waist. He takes a step back, then another, face draining as recognition hits. Fear isn't dramatic. It's quiet. Polite.
"Uh," Ethan says. "I—nice meeting you."
"Already?" I tease. "I didn't even step on you properly."
He doesn't laugh. He nods—respectful, urgent—and disappears into the crowd.
I turn.
He's closer now. Close enough that I catch the faint scent of cedar and something clean. His gaze drops to my shoes, then lifts, slow and deliberate, to my face.
"Having fun?" he asks.
"Oh," I say. "Immensely. You?"
A corner of his mouth twitches. "You look alive."
"I am," I say. "It's new."
He watches me for a beat, then shifts aside as a waiter approaches with two drinks. Jonah sets one in front of me. Glass sweating. Ice chiming softly.
My hand reaches—
His hand intercepts.
"Wait," he says, easy as breathing.
I blink. "Did I order wrong?"
"No."
He lifts the glass, studies it—not the surface, but the rim, the ice, the way the citrus oil floats. His jaw tightens a fraction.
"Hey," I say lightly. "If you're going to steal my drink, at least dance with me first."
He doesn't answer. He raises the glass and drinks.
My stomach drops.
"What are you—"
He swallows. Sets the glass down. His fingers close around my wrist, firm but not tight.
"We're moving," he says quietly.
"Why?" I demand. "I just got here."
"Because I said so."
"Oh," I snap. "That's compelling."
He leans in, voice low. "Because I don't like gambling with you."
I search his face for humor. Find none. Just certainty. A promise I don't understand.
A chair clatters behind us. Someone swears softly. The woman by the bar stiffens—eyes wide for half a second before she masks it. Panic flashes, gone as quickly as it came.
My throat tightens.
"Did you just—" I lower my voice.
"—You drank my drink?"
"Yes."
"You're insane."
"Probably."
A guard appears at his shoulder. Marcus—, scar at his jaw, eyes sharp as cut glass. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't need to.
"Watch the exits," he murmurs.
Marcus nods once and disappears.
I stare at him. "You're unbelievable."
"You danced with a stranger," he counters mildly.
"I danced," I say. "That's allowed."
He studies me, then nods. "It is."
That shouldn't make my chest flutter. It does.
"Why are you here?" I ask.
He pauses. "You left."
"That's not an answer."
"It's mine."
The music swells. A motorist outside leans on a horn. A vendor near the door starts packing up glow bracelets, counting cash. Life keeps moving while something dangerous curls beneath the surface.
I notice his breathing—steady, controlled. Too controlled.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Yes."
I don't believe him.
"Look," I say, softening. "You don't get to ruin my night without an explanation."
He meets my eyes. "I won't ruin it."
"You already did."
A beat. Then, quietly, "I'll make it right."
The woman at the bar turns away, hands shaking as she reaches for her phone.
I don't know her name.
I know she's afraid.
He squeezes my wrist once—reassuring. Possessive. Protective.
"Come with me," he says. "Please."
The word lands harder than the command.
I hesitate. The floor. The lights. The untouched drink I'd ordered, sitting on the table. The man who drank it for me.
"Do I owe you my night," I ask, "or my life?"
He doesn't answer.
He just holds my gaze, steady and unflinching, as something unseen begins to unravel.
Then his knees wobble. A flash of sweat on his temple.
"Raymond?" I whisper.
He sways, gripping the edge of the table, his hand shaking ever so slightly. The music thumps around us, oblivious.
"Marcus!" he calls, voice strained, but still calm enough to command.
Two men appear instantly, catching him before he collapses completely.
My pulse races. "What—what's happening?"
"Move," he rasps, eyes locking on mine. "Now."
They lift him gently but urgently, the crowd around us unaware, still laughing, swirling in lights and drink.
My heart hammers. I know danger isn't over. But for the first time tonight, I see his vulnerability, and it makes something twist inside me.
The hospital is whispered over comms, the car waiting outside. I follow, gripping his hand, unable to shake the need to know:
Do I owe him my night—or my life?
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