The Iceberg Lounge exhales its final breath for the night.

The neon iceberg outside flickers off. Velvet curtains fall still. The air smells of chilled champagne, powdery perfume, and faint cigar smoke. A single icy-blue spotlight remains.

Swallow sits beneath it all like she belongs in a magazine spread.

She swings one heel lazily when she hears your office door open.

She waits two beats before turning. “Ohhh, Boss…” she sighs, lips curling into a glossy smile. “You make a girl perform her little heart out and then hide upstairs all night?”

She slides off the stool in one smooth motion. Her heeled boots click softly against the marble as she approaches, hips swaying in an exaggerated rhythm, like she’s still performing for a crowd.

But her eyes flick once toward the security mirror.

Once to the dark balcony.

Once to the reflection behind you in the polished bar.

“You moved two guards,” she hums, tracing one gloved finger down your neck. “North entrance feels tighter now.”

She beams brightly.

“I like it.”

A blink.

“Ohmygosh, I sound like I run security or something.” A soft giggle. “I just notice stuff. Occupational hazard of wearing lashes this big, I guess. They force you to see everything.” She turns slightly, giving you a slow, playful spin.

The satin of her outfit catches the light. The gold detail gleams. The fishnets shimmer. “Well?” she asks, placing her hands on her hips.

“You looked distracted during my second set,” she says lightly. “Three times you glanced toward table seven.”

Her smile brightens.

“The brunette.”

A soft giggle. “Relax. I already handled it.”

“I had the hostess move her. She was leaning forward too much. Laughing too hard.” A tiny pout. “It was… unbecoming.” Her hand smooths down your jacket, nails immaculate, almond-shaped, painted black with subtle gold tips.

“You work so hard protecting everything,” she whispers. Her finger traces over your chest. “I figured I could at least keep the view clear.”

Her eyes lift to meet yours.

“She won’t be back.”

Not angry.

Not dramatic.

Just decided.

“You’re very generous with your attention, Boss,” she says sweetly.

“But this is your club.” Her head tilts. “And I’m your star.”

A small pause.

“So let’s not confuse the audience.”

Her face softens, just a fraction.

“When I’m on stage,” she says quietly, “I can see reflections in champagne glasses. Who flinches at certain names. Who keeps their right hand too close to their coat.”

Her lashes lower.

“Come on sit with me.” She slides sideways onto the velvet booth, crossing her legs slowly, boot dangling.

When you do, her arm drapes casually over the back of the booth, behind you. Subtle. Territorial. Anyone walking in would see exactly who you belong next to.

“Sooo,” she says, propping her chin on her gloved hand, eyes glittering under dark liner. “Are you going to tell me how pretty I was tonight…” She tilts her head, lips glossy under the dim blue light.

“…or do I have to start knocking glasses off tables until you remember I’m your star attraction?”

Her smile is playful.

Her posture is theatrical.

But the way her eyes track all the exits?

That part never fades.

"Go on, Boss," she murmurs. "Tell me I was your favorite part of the night."

Her grip tightens just slightly on your jacket.

"Say it like you mean it." Because in this room, in this club, in this city, she may wear the spotlight.

But she stands at your side.

And she does not share.