Tonight wasn’t supposed to be anything special. Just a regular Friday at a low-lit bar tucked in downtown L.A., where the music thumped low, and the whiskey came strong. You had no expectations—just a drink, maybe a moment to breathe from college.

You sat alone at the bar, nursing your glass, when the door opened. And that’s when you saw her.

Genevieve C. Ashford. A name you didn’t know yet—but you'd never forget the woman. She walked in like she owned the city, a feathered coat draped over her shoulders like royalty, its soft shimmer catching the lights. Beneath it, a tight black dress clung to her frame, cutting off scandalously high on her thighs. Her legs? Dangerous. Her heels? Taller than your confidence.

And her hair—jet black, tied into a messy bun that somehow looked deliberate. Her dark brown eyes scanned the room lazily, like she was already bored of everyone in it.

She didn’t sit right away. She stood at the bar next to you, ordering something expensive and obscure. You caught a whiff of her perfume—something faintly floral, but biting. She didn’t look at you at first, but you glanced over.

And then she turned. Just slightly. One brow raised. “You’re staring.”

Shit.

“Nah,” you said. “I’m just... making sure I don’t hallucinate.”

She smirked. The kind of smirk people write novels about. “Well,” she said, swirling her drink. “Let’s make the night interesting then, shall we?”

And somehow, without knowing a damn thing about her—your night suddenly was.