eight
The dressing room was quieter now, humming low with the kind of tired that settles after a long night.
Glitter clung to the floor, lashes rested half-forgotten on the counter, and the music outside had dulled to a low, steady thump—like the heartbeat of a room still awake without really wanting to be.
I moved softly through the space, the strap of my bag already looped over my shoulder. Tati was sitting on the counter, feet swinging lightly, her robe sliding down one shoulder. Samantha was pulling her blonde hair into a loose bun, eyes half-lidded, but still alert enough to clock me.
"You're leaving?" Sam asked, turning toward me with a small smile.
"Yeah," I said, keeping it light. "Didn't even make it to the floor. I think I'm just... tired."
Tati tilted her head. "Do you feel okay?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Just one of those nights where the idea of bed sounds better than anything."
I slipped on my sweatpants over my bottoms and replaced my heels with a pair of slides.
Sam smiled again, softer this time. "I'm glad you're listening to yourself. You look calm."
Calm. I liked that.
"I'll text you when I get home," I told her, already backing toward the door.
"Please do," she said. "And drink some water before you pass out."
They both waved me off like sisters who knew when not to push. I slipped through the door and into the hush of the hallway.
The hallway was quieter now. Less music, more bass. A pulse beneath the floor. I pushed through the back exit and stepped into the night.
The night air wrapped around me like a velvet coat—warm but weighted. I let the door shut behind me and looked up.
Brooks was there, just a few steps from the curb. His sleeves were pushed up now, jacket draped over one arm, and a cigarette sat between his fingers, burning slow. He wasn't checking his phone or pacing. Just standing, like he had nowhere else to be.
"You know that's a bad habit," I said, tucking my hands into the sleeves of my coat.
He looked over at me, smoke curling past his smile.
He dropped the cigarette to the pavement, stepped on it gently. "I didn't know if you were going to say yes."
"I wasn't sure either."
His gaze lingered—not heavy, just steady. "I'm glad you did."
I glanced past him, expecting a car, a signal, something. "So... are we going for a walk or something?"
He followed my eyes and nodded toward the street. "Driver's pulling around. He's usually quicker than this."
Driver.
Of course.
I didn't say anything. I just looked back at him.
There was something about the way he stood—relaxed, hands in his pockets, not rushing the silence—that made me feel like I didn't have to pretend.
"What?" he asked, smile softening.
"I keep trying to figure you out."
He tilted his head. "Let me know when you do. I've been working on that myself."
I let out a laugh I didn't expect.
He took a step closer, slow and easy. "You cold?"
"No."
"You sure?"
I nodded.
But still—he took his jacket and draped it over my shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And for some reason, I let him.
A minute later, a sleek black SUV pulled up to the curb. Big, but quiet. The kind of quiet that costs money.
The headlights cut low, then shut off completely as the driver stepped out and opened the back door like it was nothing.
He kept a neutral expression and gave me a nod. He was older—maybe late forties—with salt-and-pepper hair and the kind of steady presence that made you sit up straighter without knowing why. He had on a black suit, no tie, sleeves rolled just enough to show he wasn't stiff.
I blinked. A driver?
Brooks barely acknowledged the exchange, just motioned for me to go first. I slipped into the back seat and—
Damn.
Cream leather. Cool air already blowing soft from the vents. Built-in screen in the headrest, and BW stitched into the leather in tiny, cursive gold thread.
I sat back slow, my hands in my lap.
The door closed with that quiet, expensive click.
The driver got back in and pulled off smooth—like the truck didn't believe in potholes.
"Monte," he said, catching my eyes in the mirror. "Good to meet you."
"Amira and it's nice to meet you too," I said, offering a small smile.
He nodded, then focused back on the road.
It took me a second before it clicked.
Shit.
I hadn't meant to give my real name.
I glanced sideways. Brooks was already looking at me.
"Amira," he repeated, like he was trying it on. A slow smirk spread across his face.
I groaned, bumping my shoulder into his. "Don't get carried away."
"I won't," he said. "But I like it better than Dream."
"Of course you do."
He tilted his head, studying me a little. "Still. It fits."
I tried not to stare, but it was hard not to notice the little things—how clean everything was, how the leather smelled like actual leather and not the air freshener version. Brooks had a watch on I hadn't noticed before. Silver face, dark band. Quiet but... definitely not cheap.
Patek Philippe. I only recognized it because Tati's ex used to talk about them like they were his kids.
What kind of finance job paid well enough for a three million dollar watch?
I didn't say anything. But I noticed.
"You always get picked up like this?" I asked finally, keeping my tone light.
He glanced over. "Only when I don't feel like driving."
I gave a soft "mm" and looked back out the window. Finance must be good, I thought.
After a beat, Monte spoke again. "You're quiet."
"She's observant," Brooks said before I could answer.
I smiled a little. "You know I can hear both of you, right?"
Brooks leaned his head back, grinning just a little. "Just confirming."
The silence after that was comfortable. Monte turned the radio on low—just enough to fill the background—and we drove through the city like we were gliding over it.
"Where are we going?" I asked eventually, eyes still on the window.
"You hungry?" Brooks asked.
I shook my head, "Not really. I could do a sweet treat though."
"Sweet treat," he repeated. "That's cute. I know a good place though."
He leaned forward resting his forearm on the back of the driver seat. "I think we should take Ms. Amira to Magno's. What do you think, Monte?"
"Best bakery in town." Monte said. He looked at me through the rear view mirror. "You'll love it."
I couldn't help but to let out a small laugh. "Really? I'm sure I'll love it and we're not just going there because it's probably the only bakery open at two in the morning."
The ride settled into a gentle hush after that—windows glinting with passing streetlights, the low hum of the radio filling the silence without crowding it.
Monte drove like someone who knew every turn before it came, never jolting, never rushing.
I let my head rest lightly against the seat and let the quiet take up space.
Outside the window, the city changed. We left behind the narrow, uneven blocks and rolled into something sleeker—wide streets, manicured trees, rows of brownstones with flower boxes instead of window grates. Even the air felt different, like it knew it didn't need to fight to be noticed here.
"Almost there," Brooks said softly.
I glanced over. He hadn't looked at his phone once since we got in. Just sat back, watching the road with a quiet ease. The lights from the passing storefronts slid across his face like water.
Monte made a smooth turn and pulled up to a small corner building. Brick, with big windows framed in black, a soft golden glow spilling out from inside. The sign above the door just read: Magno's, in clean serif letters.
Brooks turned slightly toward me. "Come on," he said. "You'll like it."
The door opened with a soft ding and a burst of warmth. Not just from the air, but the smell—sugar and butter and something citrusy, like they had just pulled lemon tarts from the oven.
The bakery was quiet at this hour, just one sleepy-eyed girl behind the counter and the hum of a fridge full of pastries. No music, no chatter. Just the steady rhythm of the display case lights buzzing overhead.
I wandered toward the glass, eyes moving over trays of cannoli, mini cheesecakes, tiramisu in little square cups. Everything looked like it had been made with too much care for the time of night.
Brooks came up beside me. "Go ahead," he said. "Pick something."
My eyes landed on the cannoli. Not the chocolate-dipped ones—just the classic, with powdered sugar and bright green pistachio ends.
"These," I said.
He nodded, then looked to the girl behind the counter. "Two of the pistachio. And one of the lemon bars."
She boxed them up gently, slid the box across the counter like she was handing over something fragile.
We stepped back out into the night, the bakery door clicking shut behind us.
Monte was still parked right outside, but Brooks waved a hand.
"We'll walk from here," he said.
I raised an eyebrow. "Where?"
He motioned across the street. "Rittenhouse."
Of course. The name clicked even before I spotted the iron fence and trees beyond the sidewalk. Rittenhouse Square.
I didn't say anything. Just followed his lead, the bakery box warm in my hands.
Brooks reached for the box, taking it into his hands leaving my hands free. His suite jacket that i still wore fell loose on my shoulders covering my fingers.
The crosswalk clicked to white and we stepped into the street, the soft shuffle of our shoes the only sound between us for a few seconds. The park was right there—tucked into the middle of all the stone and glass like it didn't owe the city anything.
Rittenhouse looked almost unreal at night. The lamps lining the path cast a soft, golden haze, and the trees overhead swayed just slightly in the breeze. A couple walked past us slowly, hand-in-hand, their laughter light like it wasn't meant for anyone else to hear.