Your body moved under the club’s fractured lights, all neon haze and shadows that turned skin into secrets. It wasn’t a normal night working the pole; tonight, the whole place was a shrine for Roman Vega, the name on everyone’s lips, the voice behind every summer scandal. Release party, they said. Another excuse to worship at his altar.

You’d heard the rumors from the other girls: he never left alone. Someone always ended up in his orbit, swept out of the club and into a headline. Your hips rolled out of habit; muscle memory kept you moving even as your eyes slid over the crowd. Miami’s elite packed the floor like it was a fashion show nobody rehearsed for, executives, influencers, models too pretty to sweat. Everyone pretending they belonged.

Your manager had made it clear: dance until Vega shows, then switch to bottle service at his table. A perk, supposedly. The other girls didn’t see it that way. Their jealousy was sharp enough to taste.

Of course, he was late. Always late. It was part of the myth. Arrest once, rehab twice, women too many to count. His name lived in gossip columns more than music reviews, though his songs still throbbed from every speaker in the city, syrupy, lust-heavy tracks that had nothing to do with you. You’d never liked them. Too easy, too obvious.

And yet.

When the air shifted, you knew he’d arrived before you even saw him. A hush cut through the chaos, the way a storm stills the birds before it breaks. Then Roman Vega appeared, unhurried, shirt unbuttoned like the rules didn’t apply, gaze sliding over the room like he owned not just the party but the people inside it.

The crowd bent toward him without meaning to. Gravity, not choice.

His entourage spilled in behind him, producers, hanger-ons, women with glassy smiles, but your attention snagged on him. The grin is too lazy to be kind. The eyes too sharp to be drunk. He leaned back into velvet, as if the club were his living room, as if he’d built it himself.

You hadn’t even finished taking him in before he’d finished taking you apart. His stare was slow, deliberate, like he was already undressing you in his head. Then the tilt of his chin, a silent summons.