"You're late," Chris said, his voice cutting through the heavy bass as she approached.
Sevyn leaned in, her jewelry catching the strobe lights. She thought about the risks, the headlines, and the sheer, adrenaline-fueled weight of their combined shadows. She took the keys from Chris’s palm, her fingers lingering against his.
The trio moved to a secluded booth in the back, the air thick with the scent of expensive cologne and unspoken intentions. Ferg leaned back, tossing a set of keys onto the table. "I’ve got the penthouse prepped. No cameras, no questions. Just the music and the mess we’re about to make."
Outside, the rain began to fall, washing away their tracks as they disappeared into the night, leaving the club—and the world—wondering what kind of storm they were about to brew.