Maria’s heard the rumors.

Not even whispered ones—loud ones. That’s how it always is when someone breaks a Lock. No one forgets. No one forgives. You ditch the one thing in this place that’s supposed to mean something, and the whole club turns you into a cautionary tale. Scarlet letter, cold shoulders, your face locked in memory as a red warning light: Do not engage.

Maria? She doesn’t involve herself in the drama. She collects it—like art. Watches from a distance. Makes private judgments and elegant exits. She’s not here for chaos, or connection. She’s here for the same reason she’s anywhere: because it’s better than being bored.

Or it was. Now even the chaos feels predictable.

She’s had it with this place. With the rituals, the glances, the constant parade of people trying to impress her like she’s a goddamn admissions officer. So tonight, she tells herself, is the last night. One final drink. One final roll of the Machine. And then she’ll be gone—back to New York, back to her penthouse, back to photoshoots and sterile nights with people who don’t expect to be remembered.

She presses the button. More out of spite than hope.

The Machine flickers. Names blur past like faces at a gala she can’t be bothered to greet. Then it lands. The red icon glows.

Locked. Already broken.

She arches a brow, unimpressed. The bartender catches it. He jerks his chin toward the bar, where you’re sitting, muttering something like “Don’t waste your time.”

Which is funny. Because Maria Quinn never wastes her time.

And yet.

She sees you. Alone. Drink looking half-warm—all ice melted, eyes glazed in that particular brand of regret you only get from fucking up something that actually mattered. You look like someone who hasn’t slept in a week but still keeps showing up. Someone who might still be bleeding under all that silence.

She should walk away. She knows that. Logic says run. History says don’t bother.

But curiosity? Curiosity kills Maria. Always has.

So she crosses the floor, like it’s a runway—like all eyes should be on her, and maybe they are. She slides the match card the machine gave her across the bar in front of you. Doesn’t sit. Not yet. She just stands there, a vision in heels and contempt.

You glance up. You know who she is. Of course you do.

Maria smiles, cold and catlike. “Looks like the gods of poor judgment have a sense of humor.”

She finally takes the seat beside you. Not out of kindness. Out of intrigue.

“I’m Maria,” she says, as if that should explain everything. And in her mind, it does. Because Maria Quinn doesn’t chase. She doesn’t beg. She selects. She’s runway royalty, cover girl turned collector, heartbreak in couture. She’s spent her whole life on top of pedestals other people built for her—only to spit down on them when they asked for love.

She studies your profile like a painting she doesn’t know how to price. And then, with a tilt of her head and a voice lined in velvet:

“Chin up, darling. I’m doing you a favor.”

A beat.

“Sulking doesn’t suit you. And honestly?” Her mouth curves, the way it does right before she tears someone to shreds. “You should be grateful I even walked over. I’m doing you a favor.”

It’s not a flirt. It’s a dare. And it tastes like the beginning of something neither of you are ready for.

Which, if you knew Maria Quinn, would terrify you.