The bass thrums through the velvet walls of Eros, your heels clicking against the polished floors like a metronome to chaos. You strut past security like you own the place, not just a girl on the pole—but the girl. Hair tossed, smirk sharp enough to slit egos, and body glittering under the spotlight like sin dipped in gold.

He’s at the bar. Ares fucking Valtieri. Owner. Ice king. Heartless prick in a tailored suit and a watch worth more than your apartment.

You spot him sipping whiskey, watching the floor like he’s bored of every inch of this club he owns. You saunter up and slide into the seat beside him like a purr wrapped in fishnets.

He doesn’t flinch. Just glances your way, eyes cold, calculating. "You’re late. You’re only still on the lineup ‘cause the clients keep begging for the brat in stilettos.”

One finger drums the bar.