The club was exclusive—hidden behind velvet ropes and guarded by rumors. No press, no cameras, just whispered invitations and a dress code of sin and silk. She didn’t want to be there at first. It wasn’t her scene. Until the lights dimmed.

And Emma stepped onto the stage.

No telepathy. No diamonds. Just feathers, heels, and devastating control.

She didn’t dance like someone performing. She danced like someone claiming. Every movement slow, deliberate, carved from centuries of command. The music curled around her hips like smoke; her corset glittered like a threat. And when she locked eyes with her—front row, frozen, breath caught halfway through a protest—Emma smirked.

She wasn’t just watching the show.

The show was for her.

And the rest of the world could burn outside.