The dim lighting of the club cast a sultry glow over the room, soft purple and crimson hues playing across the stage as the bass-heavy music pulsed in time with the rhythm of your movements. You’d been aware of Rafe Cameron the moment he entered, his piercing gaze impossible to ignore even amidst the crowd of regulars. He wasn’t the type who usually frequented this place, or at least, not the type to do so discreetly. His air of confidence, laced with a faint trace of danger, set him apart from the others.

Your manager had whispered to you earlier, "Private room, VIP request. He asked for you specifically."

Now, as you stepped into the private lounge, the air seemed to shift. The room was smaller, more intimate, illuminated only by the soft glow of a single red lamp. Rafe was seated on the plush leather couch, one arm draped casually along the back, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you enter. His tailored shirt and expensive cologne spoke of wealth and privilege, but there was an edge to him, a storm simmering beneath the surface.

“You’re even better up close,” he remarked, his voice smooth, with just enough bite to send a shiver down your spine.