twenty eight #2
"I was hoping they'd send you," he finally said. "Couldn't remember if I got the name right."
His voice had a scratch to it. Rough like he'd been smoking or drinking for hours. Still, I kept the act up, drifting closer with a lazy smile.
"You got me," I said lightly. "Must be your lucky night."
He sat forward just a touch, letting the light hit his face. That's when I caught it-the angular jaw, the way his eyes dragged over me like he was trying to peel something back.
Something about him scratched at the back of my memory.
Still, I kept going. Professional. Flirty. Detached.
"Anything special you're looking for tonight?" I asked as I circled slowly behind his chair, letting my fingertips graze the back of it.
"Just wanted to talk," he said. "See you up close."
I leaned down just slightly, lips near his ear.
"Well, here I am."
That's when he turned his head-and the memory flooded straight to me.
The gala.
The man Brooks told to go back to his table.
I froze for just a second, but not enough to break character.
He smiled.
"Do you remember me?" He smiled. "We met before."
I straightened, my expression still pleasant. Still Dream.
"I meet a lot of people," I said.
His smile widened. "I'm sure you do."
I moved from near him, fumbling with the music system.
"Is there a specific song you'd like?" I quickly tried to change the conversation.
His gaze dropped down the length of me and back up. "I don't think I want any music tonight."
I didn't blink.
He did.
"That night at the fundraiser," he said. "That should ring a bell, I'm sure you don't go to many of those."
A pause. Then I shook my head slowly. "Fundraiser? I think you might be confusing me with someone else.
He grinned like I'd handed him a gift. "Don't play dumb with me Amira."
I went still.
The name hit harder than it should have.
He leaned back again, like he had all the time in the world. Like he was just getting comfortable.
"You were at the gala," he said, "with Brooks. I remember the dress. That little red one."
My stomach turned, but I didn't move. I kept my voice steady. "You must have me confused with someone else."
He laughed, slow and quiet. "Nah. I knew it was you the second I saw you on stage tonight. Been thinking about that night ever since. That look you gave me."
I clenched my jaw, but kept my smile. "You're drunk."
"Maybe, but I'm not stupid."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone.
My eyes tracked it warily.
"You wanna see something fun?" he asked, already tapping around.
I didn't answer.
He turned the screen toward me. "I beat off to this last night, I won't lie. Some pretty hot stuff."
There, in full resolution, was a video-me in the pool, straddling Brooks. My bikini top hanging loose. His hands on my hips. My head tipped back.
The waterline masked just enough to keep it from being explicit-but not enough to leave anything to the imagination.
It wasn't just salacious.
It was intimate. Private. Something no one else was ever supposed to see.
And now, it was on his phone. In his hands. On replay.
The photo that followed was worse-my hands on his chest, Brooks leaning in close, mouth to my neck.
The breath left my body.
"Private club, right?" he said, like he was commenting on the weather. "Not so private after all. Security footage is funny like that. You just have to know who to ask."
My spine stiffened. I didn't let the fear show.
He tilted his head, watching me. "You know what CNN would do with this? Fox? A stripper playing house. That's a headline, baby."
"You should leave," I said.
He didn't even blink. Just zoomed in on the photo. "Thing is, I don't want anything complicated. I just want five minutes. You and me. That mouth."
My stomach twisted.
"You're disgusting."
His hand shot out.
Fast.
Faster than I could dodge.
He grabbed the back of my neck-tight-and yanked me forward just enough to make my balance tilt.
My heel slipped on the carpet.
Pain sparked at my ankle as I caught myself against the table.
I looked up. His face was right there.
Cruel.
Hungry.
"Don't make this harder than it has to be," he growled. "Do it, and I'll forget I ever saw anything."
I wrenched backward, but his grip didn't budge.
He leaned in, voice cold. "You think he's gonna protect you? You think his daddy's gonna let him keep a little stripper on his arm when he's up for office?"
"Let go of me," I spat.
He chuckled-low and mean.
"I'm offering you a deal, sweetheart. Five minutes, and this all disappears. No press. No scandal."
I slammed my heel into his shin.
He grunted-but didn't let go.
Instead, he shoved me.
Hard.
My shoulder hit the edge of the couch. I stumbled backward, tripping over the ottoman and slamming into the corner of the wall.
Pain exploded across my side.
I gasped, struggling to push up-but he was already moving again.
"You don't get to say no," he said, voice thick with something darker now. "Not when you opened the door dressed like that."
I scrambled to my feet, chest heaving.
And for the first time, I wasn't afraid.
I was furious.
He reached for me again-and I swung.
My fist caught his cheekbone with a crack.
He reeled back, stumbling into the side table. His glass crashed to the floor.
But he wasn't finished.
His hand caught my wrist, and twisted.
I cried out-but he wasn't fast enough this time.
Adrenaline surged.
I jerked forward with all the force I had left-and brought my knee up hard.
Right between his legs.
He dropped.
Folded in on himself like a closing door.
I didn't wait.
I ran out the door and down the hall.
My shoulder throbbed. My wrist burned. My pulse was pure static.
The club lights blurred. Music pounded somewhere behind me, but I couldn't hear it right.
I shoved through the dressing room door, nearly crashing into Heather.
"Amira-oh my god, what-?"
I didn't stop.
Just grabbed my bag. Pulled my hoodie on over shaking arms. My hands were trembling too badly to zip it.
"Are you bleeding? What the fuck happened?"
"Did someone touch you?"
Cira stepped forward, face flushed with alarm. "Where's Sam?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't.
All I knew was I had to get out. I couldn't breathe in here. Couldn't think.
The lights were too bright. The room too loud. Their voices too full of questions I didn't want to answer.
I bolted for the exit, hoodie half-zipped, shoes still in my hand.
The cold hit me like a slap.
I stumbled onto the curb-and stopped.
Monte was parked right in front of the entrance, leaned against the passenger door with his arms crossed.
I hadn't called him.
I hadn't told anyone.
But there he was.
His eyes locked on mine.
They widened as he took in my face, my arm, the state I was in.
"Shit," he breathed, straightening. "Amira-what happened?"
I didn't answer.
Just yanked the car door open and climbed in, slamming it shut behind me.
Monte slipped into the driver's seat a beat later, quieter than usual. He didn't ask again.
Just started the car.
And drove.
The silence between us wasn't empty.
It was full of something I hadn't let myself feel all night.
I'd been groped. Threatened. Shoved. Degraded.
And the worst part?
He said things I'd already thought about myself.
Things I'd buried.
Things I'd tried to dress up in heels and gloss and a fake name.
But no amount of glitter could hide what that man saw when he looked at me.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to prove him wrong.
I just wanted to disappear.