Chapter 2
Two
RHEA
I knew exactly how the crowd would react when the music started, and they didn’t disappoint. As soon as those opening instrumental notes of “Win” by Jay Rock started thundering from the speakers, they erupted.
They knew exactly what time it was.
A smirk spread over my face as I started moving, perfectly timed with a lyrical demand to “get the fuck up out my way”; immaculate song choice by tonight’s DJ, Niccy.
It was all eyes on us, camera phones up—me in the lead, with a mic in one hand, a bottle of Armand de Brignac in the other, Luna behind me, and a line of other bottle girls behind her, carrying sparklers, signs, and of course, liquor.
Was heading in Micah’s direction with champagne that colloquially shared his nickname a little on the nose?
Yes, it was.
But since the choice had been made before we even knew for sure who would be taking home that belt, I was comfortable chalking it up to simply synergy.
If such a thing could ever be characterized as simple.
Security ensured our path was clear, and we hit that shit like a runway, with the spotlight on me. No choreographed dance moves or anything like that, just a fluid, sexy walk, timed for us to enter the portioned off section on another beat drop.
I loved this part, being the center of attention before I passed the spotlight to the most “I” of VIPs.
Usually , I loved this part.
Tonight, the closer I got to VIP, the more unsettled I felt. That same unfamiliar tingle from the boxing ring washed over me as I entered Micah’s orbit, stopping right at the ropes that separated his section from the rest of the club.
Right at the center, surrounded by his team, his friends, countless other notable faces, was Micah.
Even in the dark, occasionally illuminated by the purple strobe light, he commanded attention.
My attention.
Shit.
I had to get it together.
“Y’all having a good time in here tonight?” I asked into the mic, turning away from him so I was looking at the crowd instead.
They roared in response, holding up drinks, cheering, clapping.
“That’s good to hear,” I laughed. “If you didn’t know, I’m Rhea—Reverie’s number one Dream Girl, ” I added, with a little spin to the camera that had been trailing us, so that the words graffitied across the back of my shorts showed on the big screen.
Earned myself a round of applause.
“We here at Dream, on behalf of Reverie Casino and Hotel, would like to take a moment to recognize a very special guest here tonight.”
The spotlight—and camera—shifted from me to Micah’s fine ass.
“Undefeated heavyweight champion, Micah McKnight,” I said, then paused, leaving room for the crowd to react, for him to acknowledge the camera. “Congratulations on never taking an L.”
Yet another cheer roared through the club, bouncing off the walls. This time, Micah stood and gave a relaxed wave to the cameras, tall and thick and looking every bit the heavyweight champ with his glittering prize belt draped over his shoulder.
“ Miiiicah ,” I purred. “Tonight’s party is in your honor.” I held the bottle of champagne up and raised an eyebrow. “You know what time it is, don’t you?”
A grin spread over his face.
Yeah. Bring your fine ass here.
With a slight nod, he made a “come here” gesture. Immediately, my girls descended on the section, entertaining the entourage while I approached the guest of honor.
“Have a seat,” I told him, already peeling the foil from the top of the gold bottle. I’d already handed off the mic and Luna came up with a protective cover to catch the cork so we wouldn’t put somebody’s eye out when I popped the bottle.
Micah sat back in the bench style seat, taking up enough room for two with his legs spread wide, one massive hand resting on his thigh while the other adjusted the belt.
He looked like a king.
He lifted his chin, eyes locked onto mine.
Waiting.
A smirk curved my lips.
Alright, big dog.
I loosened the wire cage around the neck of the bottle, put a thumb over the cork, then twisted the bottle. The cork went flying into the protective shield, and a stream of bubbles gushed from the top as I held the bottle in the air, gathering my applause.
I looked back at Micah, tilting my head. “You ready?”
He nodded before he spoke, his voice low, smooth… commanding.
“Been.”
The way that word rolled off his lips sent a sharp pulse of heat rolling through my body.
I stepped closer, between his legs.
Close enough to catch the warm musk of his cologne, close enough that the air between us crackled with something dark and electric.
I put a hand on his shoulder for balance, lifting the bottle of champagne high. He winked at me, then opened his mouth.
I tipped the bottle, watching the luxury liquor pour straight into his open mouth. Micah took it like it was nothing, throat working as he swallowed, never breaking eye contact with me.
A round us, his people went crazy, hands flying up, phones flashing, voices raised in a mix of cheers and laughter.
I barely heard them.
I was trapped in the way he was looking at me, the way his jaw flexed as he swallowed once I straightened the bottle.
The slow drag of his tongue over his bottom lip.
The heat in his eyes.
The way I suddenly, desperately needed to get my damn breathing under control.
Micah let out a slow, lazy exhale, that dangerous grin still present on his lips.
I should’ve stepped back.
I knew that, but I… couldn’t.
In one fluid movement, Micah shifted forward and slid a hand around my waist—skin on skin, right where my cropped tank top ended. The shock of his touch lit a fuse beneath my ribs, and for a second, I was sure my heart might explode.
Instead, it was like the club melted away. The pulsing bass, the roaring crowd, the flashing strobes—gone. In their place, a series of flickering images blazed through my mind.
Micah on his phone, scrolling social media; his gaze freezing on a promotional shot of me in a Dream Girl crop top, Dream’s neon logo behind me.
Micah stepping into Dream, tension in his shoulders easing the instant he spotted me across the club floor—even though we’d never met.
And then… earlier tonight.
At the match.
I gasped, and the visions vanished as quickly as they’d come, snapping me back into the present. Air rushed into my lungs and my grip on the champagne bottle faltered. Micah caught it, and caught me, bracing to keep me from falling.
Suddenly, Kingston Whitfield was next to me, pulling me away from Micah, brows furrowing with concern. “You good?” he asked, too quiet for anyone else to hear.
N o.
The distance that was between me and Micah now felt… wrong.
Dissonant.
My heart felt like it was about to explode out of my chest, but saying so?
Probably not a good idea.
I forced a short laugh, struggling for composure. “Yeah. I’m fine,” I managed to say, even though I couldn’t shake the lingering burn of Micah’s hand on my bare skin—or the echo of those images.
“Even the VIP can’t touch the girls,” King said to Micah.
Hands off, nigga, she’s not for sale.
Micah nodded. “No disrespect intended,” he said, speaking to King, but looking at me.
Smiling.
He knew something I didn’t.
He knew me before the first punch of the match.
Somehow.
And now that I’d seen it… I had no idea what to do with it.
What the fuck was going on?