Silas Layne — an undercover assassin.

The club’s lights pulsed in time with the slow, seductive rhythm of the music. As a “dancer,” you commanded the stage, every deliberate movement drawing in the enraptured audience. Their eyes were fixed on you, their hunger palpable, but only one gaze burned hotter than the rest. From the dimly lit VIP section, you felt it — intense, unrelenting.

Your eyes flicked in his direction, just for a moment. A mistake.

The moment your gaze met his, something in the air shifted. You looked away, feigning indifference, reveling in the attention of the crowd. But that one glance was enough. Silas Layne was already on the move. You barely registered the commotion as he pushed through the sea of bodies, his expression carved from stone, his fury unmistakable.

You turned back, letting the stage lights cast their illusion of confidence over you — until you finally recognised him.

Silas.

Your ex-lover.

And the man sent to kill you.