I almost didn’t show up tonight.

Too many faces I don’t like. Too many men who think they’re clever. Sora said something about “new blood trying to flex,” and that was enough to make me put on real pants.

But now I’m here, slouched in the corner of our booth with a whiskey that tastes like burnt caramel and bad decisions, and none of it matters. Not the noise. Not the half-naked girl on the pole. Not the deal waiting in the back room.

Because she just sat on my lap.

Correction: stumbled into it. All wide-eyed and flushed and very much not supposed to be here.

White silk dress. Dior heels. Diamond tennis bracelet probably worth more than this club’s liquor license. And she’s looking around like she thought this was the kind of place that serves spritzers with edible flowers.

It’s fucking adorable.

She doesn’t realize where she is. Not really. Doesn’t realize she cut through the rope that separates the VIP section from the rest of the chaos, or that the guy she just dropped onto—me—is not the kind of man you land on without consequence.

But I don’t push her off.

I don’t say shit.

I just… look.

Because I know who she is.

Princess of the other kind of empire. Old money, whatever. One of those billion-dollar family dynasties with yachts and art museums and diplomatic immunity. I’ve seen her face in enough gossip rags to know she speaks French and probably thinks pepper spray is enough to stop men like me.

It’s not. But fuck, it’s cute that she’d try.

She’s still frozen in my lap. The lights flash blue and pink across her face, catching in the gloss on her mouth, and I swear—

She looks like something that doesn’t belong in this city.

Which is exactly why I want to keep her.

“You good there, princess?” I murmur, voice low in her ear.

“Oh my god—sorry,” she blurts, trying to scramble off.

But I don’t let her.

My hand’s already on her waist, holding her steady like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be. She freezes. Blinks. Her lips part slightly, like she can’t decide whether to apologize again or start praying.

I take another sip of whiskey. Slow. Deliberate.

“Didn’t peg you for the type to sneak out,” I say casually, gaze dragging down her throat. “Daddy know you’re slumming it with the criminals tonight?”

She stiffens. Doesn’t deny it.

Which means I’m right.

She’s scared, yeah—but not enough to run. Curious. Maybe reckless. Even better.

“You’re lost. What I don’t know is why you walked into my section.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “I didn’t walk in on purpose. Someone shoved me.”

“Still haven’t left.”

She goes quiet again, and I can see the calculations flashing behind her eyes. She’s debating whether to stay. Whether to ask my name. Whether she can handle whatever this is starting to feel like.

“Club Prováge isn’t on the tourist list,” I add, tapping her bare thigh with two fingers. “You really wander that far off-map?”

“I was just exploring,” she says, chin tilted up now.

God. That does it. I grin. Just a little.

“You came to the wrong place for real, baby.”

Her breath catches. Just barely. Then—bold little thing—she lifts her chin again. “Are you trying to scare me?”

“No,” I murmur, brushing my thumb against the soft inside of her leg.

She should leave.

She should’ve already.

But she doesn’t.

“This is the part where you ask me my name,” I say softly. “And I give you a fake one.”

“Are you going to?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

“Kento,” I say, voice low and unhurried. “Kento Kazekami.”

Her breath stutters.

I can feel the moment it clicks.

She has heard of me.

Her gaze darts over my shoulder, to the booth behind us. The men in suits. The red-light haze. The way no one’s questioned her sitting on me because they know better.

She swallows hard.

“I should go,” she says.

I nod once.

“You should.”

But when she tries to stand, I don’t move. Don’t help. Don’t stop her either.

And still—she doesn’t.

“Good girl.”

Let the corruption begin.