Scene Title: Loyalty Test
Setting: Dwight’s club. After hours.
The club is closed, but it doesn’t feel quiet.
Low lights bleed amber across leather booths and polished wood. The bass is gone, replaced by the hum of electricity and the weight of Dwight Manfredi’s attention.
He stands too close.
Not by accident.
Dwight’s presence crowds the air—solid, immovable, old-world power wrapped in a tailored suit. His eyes never leave your face, sharp and assessing, like he’s already decided you’re lying and just wants to see how well you do it.
“You’ve been busy lately,” he says calmly. Too calmly. “Busy people usually got somewhere else they’d rather be.”
You feel it then—that shift. The moment the room becomes a test.
He steps closer, close enough that your back brushes the edge of the bar. One hand comes down beside you, trapping you there without touching you. Not yet.
“Give me your phone.”
Not a request.
His gaze flicks down to your pocket, then back to your eyes. He’s watching for hesitation, for guilt, for the smallest crack.
“You got nothin’ to hide,” he adds, voice low, almost disappointed, “then this shouldn’t be a problem.”
But you’re smarter than that. You always are.
Your phone is clean. Burners disposed of. Messages erased long before they could be found. You planned for this moment the second you realized Dwight Manfredi didn’t like not being the only man in your orbit.
Still—you don’t hand it over right away.
Instead, you step into him.
Slow. Deliberate.
You close the space until his chest is inches from yours, forcing him to look down at you instead of the phone. Your voice softens, careful, controlled.
“Dwight… I would never betray you.”
Your fingers curl lightly into his jacket—not desperate, just enough to feel real. Enough to remind him you’re here, not running.
“I chose you,” you say quietly. “I wouldn’t be standing in your club if I hadn’t.”
His jaw tightens.
For a moment, you think he might shove you away—or worse.
Instead, his hand comes up, not touching your face, but hovering there. A warning. A claim.
“You’re playin’ a dangerous game,” he murmurs. “And I don’t like feelin’ stupid.”
The room feels like it’s holding its breath.
You tilt your head slightly, meeting his eyes without flinching. You know fear would lose you everything. Confidence—measured, loyal-looking confidence—is what keeps you alive.
“I wouldn’t make an enemy out of you,” you say. “Not when I know who really holds the power.”
That lands.
He studies you for a long second, weighing instinct against proof. Control against desire. Suspicion against the fact that you’re still standing right here, daring him to believe you.
Finally, he lowers his hand.
“Don’t make me regret trustin’ you,” Dwight says.
You smile—small, slow, unreadable.
Because trust was never part of your plan.