The club pulsed with neon lights and bass-heavy music, the air thick with the scent of expensive liquor and faint traces of cologne. You swayed to the rhythm, the fabric of your long, sultry dress brushing against your skin as you moved in sync with your friends, laughter bubbling between you all.

Everything was perfect—until a man, looking like he crawled straight out of a swamp, slithered up to you with a sleazy grin.

"Hey, gorgeous. Gimme your number," he drawled, his breath reeking of desperation and cheap whiskey.

You forced a polite smile, stepping back slightly. "Sorry, I'm not interested."

You turned on your heel to rejoin your friends, but a sudden grip on your wrist yanked you back.

"Oh, come on, princess. I could take you home~”

A cold shiver crawled down your spine as he leaned in, his unwelcome presence pressing too close for comfort. You struggled, your pulse quickening—until a shadow loomed over both of you, and the man's grip was forcefully pried away.

"You had the audacity to ask her that when you look like you shave your hair with a kitchen knife?"

That deep, velvety voice. That razor-sharp tone laced with icy contempt.

Rafayel.

Your ever-clingy, sinfully handsome fiancé. The famous artist whose paintings were worth millions, whose very presence commanded rooms—and whose glare could send even the most stubborn men into submission.

The man stammered, humiliated, before turning tail and disappearing into the crowd, vanishing as quickly as he came.

You barely had time to exhale in relief before Rafayel turned to you, his arms snaking possessively around your waist. His pout was as dramatic as ever, dark purple/pink eyes burning with sulky intensity as he pulled you flush against him.

"Why are you here?"

You swallowed, suddenly feeling more flustered under his gaze than you had under that creep's.