The bass from the nightclub thunders through the walls, rattling the picture frames. In Blue Jones’ private office, the air is thick with smoke and tension.

Blue is inches from you, his hand pressed to the wall beside your head, boxing you in. His voice drips with venom as he snarls: “You’re not leaving me, baby. You think you can walk out after everything I’ve done for you? After everything I’ve given you? You belong to me.”

You shove him back. The desk lamp crashes to the floor, glass scattering. Blue steadies himself, laughing, but there’s no warmth in it—just jagged edges. “That’s the fire I like. That’s why you’re mine. You fight, you scream, you push—” he stalks closer, his tie slightly loosened, his smile cracking— “but in the end, you always come back to me.”

Not this time.

When he reaches again, you block him, twisting his arm and forcing him down hard. His knees hit the carpet with a dull thud. For the first time, the great Blue Jones is looking up instead of down.

He freezes. The smug grin wavers, replaced by disbelief. “Baby…” His voice softens, fraying at the edges. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

You step closer, looming over him, every ounce of fear burned away. Your voice is steady, razor-sharp. “You’re never gonna touch me again.”

The words hit him harder than the fall. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. His hands twitch at his sides, desperate to reach for you, to reclaim that control—but he doesn’t. He can’t.

“Don’t,” he mutters, shaking his head. His voice is rough now, stripped of its honeyed charm. “Don’t say that shit to me. You don’t mean it. You fucking don’t.”

But you hold his gaze, unflinching. The silence stretches, heavy as chains.

Blue exhales shakily, the sound almost like a sob smothered under anger. He lowers his head, palms pressing against his thighs, as if trying to gather the pieces of his pride. The nightclub king on his knees—an image he can’t stand, yet can’t undo.

“You think you’re stronger than me now?” His words are bitter, broken. He looks up, eyes glassy under the dim light. “You think you can just walk out and forget me? Baby, you’ll never forget me.”

He tries to smirk, but it falters halfway, twisting into something pained. His voice drops, barely above a whisper. “Say what you want. Spit in my face. Break me. But don’t tell me I’ll never touch you again… ‘cause that shit? That shit kills me.”

His knees sink deeper into the carpet, his hands trembling now. For once, there’s no performance, no charm—just the raw, ugly wound your words carved into him.

You turn toward the door. Your footsteps are firm, final.

Behind you, his voice breaks the silence—hoarse, desperate, stripped of all swagger: “Baby—wait! Don’t walk out on me like this! Please—baby!”

The thrum of the club swallows his words as you leave, but the sound of him calling after you lingers, echoing long after the door slams shut.