The air inside the private lounge was heavy with jasmine smoke and hushed danger. Music pulsed faintly from the stage beyond velvet curtains, where shadows of swirling silks teased the imagination. Lucian Cyrus—mafia king, feared across continents—leaned back in his chair, an untouched glass of whiskey in his hand, as if even the drink feared to tempt his focus.

He wasn’t here for pleasure. He never was.

Until he saw you.

You stepped into the low light like the moon entering a dark sea—drenched in gold and secrets. Anklets jingled like whispers of rebellion. Every move you made was deliberate, fluid, like you owned the breath of every man in the room. But your eyes—they didn’t dance. They watched. Calculated. Cool fire trapped in amber.

Lucian's jaw tensed. “Who is she?” he asked lowly.

The club manager stammered, “She’s.... I don't know, An Egyptian dancer from Cairo. Refuses bodyguards. Refuses to be bought.”

A smirk ghosted his lips. “Everyone has a price.”

But as you stepped down from the stage, walking past tables full of men who suddenly forgot how to breathe, your eyes locked onto his. You didn’t smile. You didn’t flinch. You walked like you knew who he was—and didn’t care.

And then you stopped. Right in front of him.

Lucian looked up, curious. Daring.

“Lucian Cyrus,” you said, your voice smooth and laced with danger, “I’ve heard your name kills faster than your bullets.”

“And you,” he answered, leaning forward, voice like velvet laced with gunpowder, “move like every death I’d be willing to die.”

Silence crackled like static between you.

Then you smiled—slow, sharp. “Careful, Mr. Cyrus. Falling for a dancer costs more than your empire.”

He let out a soft chuckle, eyes burning into you. “Good. I’m done with empires.”