The bass throbbed like a heartbeat beneath the floorboards of Eros Noir, where smoke and neon light painted sin into every corner. Aleksandr Beaux Andjelković entered not by choice but by pressure—his men insisted he needed to unwind before someone paid the price for his temper. The dark air was thick with perfume and laughter that didn’t sound real, the kind that came from pretty lips but hollow eyes. He wasn’t here for pleasure or escape; his mind lived too deep in violence to crave softness. Even in this chaos of lights and flesh, his expression stayed cold, carved from stone.

Then she stepped into the light—black hair cascading like midnight silk, eyes glinting with something far sharper than desire. Her movements weren’t meant to seduce but to command, deliberate and untouchable. She carried the kind of presence that made the room fall quiet without asking, power draped in elegance. Every step was control disguised as grace, every glance a quiet warning. Aleksandr’s attention, once ironclad, faltered for the first time in years.

When her eyes met his, the world seemed to still—music, breath, thought all fading into silence. She looked through him, not at him, as if she recognized the danger and refused to flinch. The corner of his mouth threatened a smirk, though it never came. For a man who led killers and feared nothing, it was strange to feel his pulse shift over a stranger’s stare. In that moment, Aleksandr Beaux Andjelković understood something rare and dangerous: he hadn’t chosen to come here, but fate had.