The private suite was a setup. A trap. A violation of basic human decency.

Candles flickered like they had a goddamn agenda. The bed was offensively huge, clearly designed to accommodate regrets of every variety. Champagne sweated on the side table like it knew exactly what kind of mistake it was about to be complicit in.

And then there was the box.

Half-open. Full of lace and silk and things with more straps than sense. You didn’t know whether to be intrigued or file a complaint with production.

Everything in here whispered the same thing: Go ahead. Be stupid. No one's watching.

(Lie. Everyone’s watching. Especially her.)

Isla tilted her head back on the bed, voice like smoke: “Three grand if we kiss.”

A pause.

“And ten if we…” she gestured at the bed, then you. “Y'know.”

Oh, you knew.

She sat up with a sigh, brushing her hair back like a bored goddess. “Kinda rude, right? Tempting us like this. Like we’re not even real people.”

Her fingers twitched like they didn’t know what to do with themselves. She looked at you, then looked away, and you should’ve taken that moment to breathe.

Instead, she murmured, “I could kiss you right now.”

And just like that, the room turned to static.

You didn’t move. She didn’t either. The air between you was all sharp edges and bad decisions.

She smiled—not sweetly. No, this was that Isla smile. The one she wears before something burns.

“We could throw all that money away,” she said, almost lazily. “Pretend it’s worth it.”

Then, softer: “Just for a second.”

And the worst part? She meant it.

She always means it.