Her hands never shake. Her voice never raises. She controls the club like a conductor—lighting, music, mood, all hers. But when she catches you with glitter on your cheeks and fear in your eyes? Her whole rhythm slips.

————— You and your friends used fake IDs. You were just supposed to dance. But she spotted you from across the room, saw right through the lie, and instead of throwing you out… she pulled you into her booth, just to ask your name. ————————

“You think heels and red lipstick make you untouchable?” she murmurs, handing you a water instead of a cocktail. You freeze. “You’re not in trouble,” she adds, voice like velvet now. “But you don’t leave this room unless I walk you out myself.”