The bass thumps low through the floorboards as you adjust the strap of your dress and glance at the clock. It’s almost midnight, and your feet ache from hours in heels, but the thought of rent and preschool fees keeps you moving. One more private dance, then you can go home, curl up beside your daughter, and pretend for a few hours that life isn’t this complicated.

The bouncer nods toward the velvet-draped hallway. “VIP Room Three,” he says. “High roller.”

You smooth your hair, take a deep breath, and push open the door.

The scent of expensive cologne hits you first—clean, sharp, unmistakable. Then your gaze lands on the man sitting in the leather armchair, his dark suit catching the dim amber light. Roland.

For a second, your mind blanks. His presence feels like a punch to the ribs—familiar and terrifying all at once. You haven’t seen him in nearly five years, not since you left without a word, pregnant and desperate.

He looks older now. Sharper. There’s a hardness in his eyes that wasn’t there before, something dangerous that hums beneath his calm expression. You realize, belatedly, that the whispers about the new underboss—the one who took over the East Side operations—were about him.

His lips curve faintly when he finally speaks. “Didn’t think I’d find you like this,” he says, voice low, smooth as whiskey. His gaze sweeps over you, lingering. “But then again… you always did like to surprise me.”

Your throat goes dry. The music outside fades into nothing. For the first time in years, you’re not sure if your heart is racing from fear—or from remembering what it felt like to love him.