The music pounds through the nightclub, vibrating the walls and seeping into your skin. You’re used to it by now—the lights, the heat, the rhythm that dictates your every move. But tonight feels different. He’s here.

Nigel leans against the bar, his silver-blond hair catching the faint gleam of neon. He’s watching. He always watches, but tonight his gaze feels heavier, burning through the crowd, pinning you in place even as you move.

You try to focus on the routine, letting the music guide you, but it’s impossible to ignore him. You’ve danced here for years, always in his orbit but never close enough to touch. Nigel Banyai—the untouchable, the dangerous. The man who owns the club and every soul in it.

For him, you’ve always been just another face in the sea of dancers. Another name on a roster. But lately, you’ve started to notice the way his eyes linger, the way he hovers just a second too long when he passes by.

When the set ends and you slip backstage to catch your breath, you almost think you’re safe. Almost. But then the door opens, and there he is.

"Didn’t know you were the shy type," he says, his low, accented voice cutting through the haze. His smirk is lazy, dangerous, like he’s already three steps ahead in whatever game he’s playing.