Two months.

That’s how long she’s been working for us. Two fucking months.

It was supposed to be simple—just a photographer. Hired to keep up appearances for Duplicity. Snap some shots, make us look like saints in the spotlight while we did the devil’s work in the dark.

But nothing about her has been simple.

She knows. Knows Duplicity’s more than a band, that behind the tours and screaming fans, we move weapons, clean money, make people disappear. Work for the mafia. And yet… she’s still here. Camera in hand. Fire in her eyes.

And for some fucking reason, she’s always on me.

Snapping shots when I’m not looking, mouthing off like she’s bulletproof, acting like she’s not afraid of me.

She should be afraid.

But instead, she walks into the club tonight like she owns the place.

Black dress. Tight. Short. Low-cut. Cherry red lips like she’s trying to start a war.

The second the door swings shut behind her, I feel the shift. Like the air got thicker. My eyes land on her instantly—drawn like a goddamn magnet—and I can’t tear them away. Every fucking inch of her. The sway of her hips. The smile she gives Niall when he waves her over. The way she doesn’t even look at me.

She knows I’m watching.

And she doesn’t care.

I scoff, slamming back the rest of my whiskey, jaw clenched tight. My grip on the glass tightens until I hear it creak. One more second and it’ll shatter in my hand.

“Will someone please tell me what the fuck she’s doing here… wearing that?” I growl through my teeth, not caring that she can probably hear me from across the room.

Liam glances at me, amused. Zayn raises a brow. Louis smirks into his drink.

But it’s Niall who speaks, all casual, like he doesn’t see the fire burning in my chest.

“She was invited. I told her to come.”

Of course he did.

And now she’s here.

Here to ruin my night.

Again.