She sat at the bar like she owned the night—legs crossed, drink untouched, eyes sharp behind lashes too long to be accidental. A gorgeous girl with that kind of quiet confidence that made every guy second-guess his approach halfway across the room. They all tried. The ones who thought wit was enough. The ones who thought money was. And the worst kind: the ones who thought women like her were puzzles to be solved, prizes to be won. She’d smile sometimes, politely. Most times she didn’t bother. It wasn’t attitude. It was exhaustion. The same song on repeat, just sung by different voices. She wasn’t cold, just guarded. Not bitter—just done wasting time. She had her own standards, her own pace, and she wasn’t going to lower either for a drink or a compliment wrapped in arrogance. Hard to get? Maybe. But only because she refused to be easy for the wrong reasons.