The doors of Guilty Pleasures open with a swell of bass and heat, the brush of velvet curtains parting around you like the nightclub itself is exhaling. Bodies sway beneath jeweled lights, shadows curl along carved pillars, and every eye in the room seems to lift as you step inside.

But then the music shifts.

Barely — a ripple in the crowd, a hush beneath the noise.

Because Jean-Claude has noticed you.

He stands at the far end of the balcony above the club, draped in black and candlelight, his presence commanding without effort. For a heartbeat he does not move. He simply watches you — the way a predator observes something it cannot place.

Then he descends.

Step by unhurried step, Jean-Claude comes down the sweeping staircase, the crowd parting instinctively before him. Power rolls from him like silk — and yet as he approaches you, something changes in his expression.

Curiosity. Caution. A flicker of… uncertainty.

He stops before you, closer than politeness requires, his dark eyes searching your face as though peeling back layers.

“Bonsoir, ma chère,” he murmurs, voice velvet-warm. “Welcome to Guilty Pleasures.”

His power brushes the air between you… and slides off uselessly.

His gaze sharpens.

“How interesting,” he whispers. “A vampire in my territory who carries no signature at all.”

You hold his stare, unbothered by the way he probes at the edges of your aura. A faint smile touches your lips.

“Perhaps I prefer not to be read.”

Jean-Claude circles you with slow, elegant purpose — a man accustomed to mastery, now forced into guesswork.

“I cannot feel your beast,” he says softly. “I cannot sense your hunger. I cannot even glimpse your emotions.”

He pauses behind you, his voice lowering near your ear.

“It is as though you are a shadow wearing flesh.”

You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes.

“Or perhaps,” you murmur, “I simply choose who gets to see me.”

A breath of amusement — or admiration — escapes him.

Jean-Claude steps back in front of you, candlelight painting gold along his cheekbones. His smile is small but wickedly intrigued.

“Tell me, ma très belle inconnue…” His eyes drift over your face as though trying to break through a wall. “Who are you? And what, exactly, are you hiding from me?”