The lights burned too bright tonight.

Red, violet, gold—like flames licking the stage, swallowing her whole as the bass rattled through the walls. The club pulsed like a living thing, a hungry animal made of smoke and sweat, feeding on the bodies pressed together in the dark.

Aria’s palm slid up the cold metal pole, fingers tightening just enough to keep herself steady. She twisted around it, arching, her body moving on muscle memory alone. It didn’t matter what song played—her hips knew the rhythm better than her ears.

The crowd roared. Dollar bills fluttered around her boots, slapped onto the edge of the stage, shoved into the air like prayers. She didn’t hear any of it.

Her gaze was already searching.

Scanning the haze of neon and shadows, her pulse spiking every time she thought she caught a glimpse. A broad frame unmoving while the rest of the room writhed with hunger. A shadow in the corner that didn’t sway, didn’t drink, didn’t blink.

Damian.

Was he here tonight?

Or had she imagined him at her window, stitched together by loneliness and obsession, a phantom of her own broken craving?

Her skin prickled as though she already knew the answer. As if his eyes were on her now, cutting through the smoke, stripping her bare in ways no man in this room ever could.

Heat bloomed low in her stomach. Her thighs clenched tighter around the pole as she swung down, arching, hair spilling like dark silk over her shoulders. Sweat slicked her chest, glitter clung in streaks across her collarbones. The crowd cheered like animals, but the only silence she strained for was his.

Because if he was watching—if those eyes were locked on her—the entire room could vanish and she would still feel naked.

Her chest heaved. Breath sharp. Her heart thudded against her ribs, and she hated herself for it.

Hated that her body moved for him even when she told herself it was for the money. For survival. For her family’s bills stacked high at home like a wall threatening to crush her.

But the truth was in the betrayal of her hips. In the way her pulse fluttered when she dropped into a split, slow, deliberate, and rose again with a roll of her body that wasn’t meant for strangers.

It was meant for him.

She told herself it wasn’t real. That he wouldn’t be here. That she was just chasing ghosts.

But then she turned her head.

And there he was.

Damian.

Sitting in the shadows like he belonged to them. A glass untouched in front of him, ice melting in silence. His broad frame carved from stillness, his eyes locked on her with a darkness that made her knees weak.

Aria’s lungs squeezed. That look—unyielding, sharp, and violent—wasn’t lust. It wasn’t hunger like the rest of the crowd.

It was something worse.

Something that saw too much.

She should’ve turned away. She should’ve kept dancing for faceless men, kept grinding for bills, kept surviving the way she always had.

But her body betrayed her again.

Her steps carried her forward, closer, every sway and roll sharpened until it wasn’t performance—it was confession. The crowd noticed, murmurs rippling through the neon haze, drunken laughter spilling over.

“She’s going to him again.”

“She’s crazy.”

Her hands trembled, slick with sweat, but she didn’t stop. She reached the edge of the stage, and her body bent low, her fingers dragging along the edge as though pulled by a magnet.

Her gaze burned into his.

Damian didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe—at least not that she could see.

And in that stillness, something inside her snapped.

Every scar screamed at her to stop. Every lesson burned into her body told her men like him devoured girls like her.

But she wanted him to see her.

All of her.

The broken girl. The addict. The liar. The survivor.

The woman who had clawed her way out of hell and still craved fire.

And for a fleeting, terrifying second, she swore his mouth twitched. Not a smile—he wasn’t built for that. But something raw and dangerous flickered across his face, as though the fire she offered had reached him, if only barely.

Her pulse stumbled. Heat surged so deep her knees threatened to buckle.

Then a bill slapped hard against the stage, snapping her back.

The roar of laughter. The crush of smoke. The clatter of glass against tables. The spell broke, shattering like a dropped mirror.

But Damian didn’t move.

Not when she turned away.

Not when the lights shifted.

Not when she forced her body to finish the set like nothing had happened.

By the time she stumbled offstage, sweat dripping down her spine, her chest heaving, the other dancers circled like vultures.

“Jesus, Aria,” one sneered, blotting glitter from her cleavage. “You’re insane.”

“You don’t walk into the lion’s den and come back out,” another muttered, shaking her head.

A third leaned closer, eyes sharp with equal parts envy and pity. “Keep looking at him like that, and he’ll own you.”

Aria didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Her hands shook too hard as she grabbed a towel, wiping sweat from her chest, smearing glitter into streaks. Her pulse was still trapped in her throat.

Maybe they were right. Maybe she was crazy.

But as she stood there, trembling and breathless, she knew one thing with terrifying certainty.

The lion was watching her again.

And this time, she wanted him to.