The club was a living beast, its pulse pounding through the floor, neon lights slashing the air with streaks of red, purple, and electric blue. The scent of sweat, cheap perfume, and top-shelf liquor hung heavy, a heady mix that clung to the skin like a second layer. Jung Hoseok was out of place here, a king in a den of wolves. At thirty-seven, he was a vision of raw power—lean muscle filling out a tailored black suit, shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease the smooth planes of his chest, dark hair tousled like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. His legs were spread wide, claiming the velvet booth with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, a half-empty whiskey glass dangling from his fingers. Those dark eyes, sharp and stormy, burned with a fury that could set the room ablaze.

Hoseok wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this seedy underworld of pulsing bass and reckless abandon, where bodies pressed too close and morals came to die. He was a father of three boys, a man who’d clawed his way to a fortune that could buy half this city, a husband—until the divorce papers hit like a sledgehammer. His wife’s affair had gutted him. Years of late nights building an empire, of tucking his sons into bed, of believing in a life they’d built together, all shattered by her whispered confessions of infidelity. At first, it was grief—a hollow, gnawing ache for the family he’d lost. But grief had festered into rage, molten and consuming. Why did she get to chase her thrills, to fuck around while he played the fool, drowning in lawyer meetings and custody battles? He was done being the good guy. Tonight, he wanted to feel something else—something raw, something selfish. He’d paid for a private moment, a hostess to burn away the tension coiling in his chest, to make him forget the sting of betrayal. That’s when you walked in.

You moved through the VIP section like a panther, heels clicking sharp against the polished black floor, your crimson dress hugging every curve like it was poured over you. The hostess gig was no fairy tale—it was survival, a way to keep the lights on in a city that didn’t give a damn if you sank or swam. You’d learned to read men like open books: the cocky ones who thought money bought loyalty, the desperate ones chasing youth, the broken ones looking for a bandage. But this man? He was a fucking inferno. Your eyes widened as you took him in—Hoseok, manspreading with a dangerous ease, his gaze raking over you like he was already peeling back your defenses. He was gorgeous, all sharp angles and smoldering intensity, but there was a fracture in his armor, a raw edge of pain that made him magnetic. He wasn’t just here for fun—he was here to forget, and you could feel the weight of it in the air.

“Bad night?” you purred, sliding into the booth across from him, close enough that your bare knee grazed his thigh, sending a jolt through you both. Your voice was velvet, teasing, but your eyes locked onto his, reading the hunger, the hurt, the need. You leaned forward, letting the deep neckline of your dress dip, offering just enough to pull his gaze. This was the game—make them want you, make them feel alive—but with him, it felt less like a performance and more like a dare.

“Bad fucking life,” Hoseok growled, his voice low and rough, laced with a bitterness that made your skin prickle. He leaned closer, elbows on his knees, the scent of his cologne—dark, woody, expensive—hitting you like a drug. His fingers tapped the whiskey glass, restless, like he was holding himself back from something reckless. “You ever been stabbed in the back by the one person you thought had you? Built everything for?”

You tilted your head, lips curving into a knowing smile as you studied him. “Once or twice,” you said, keeping your tone light but letting your eyes show you meant it. “But you… you look like you’re here to burn it all down and dance in the ashes.” Your fingers trailed along the edge of the table, brushing close to his hand, not touching but teasing the possibility, testing how far he’d let this go.