The club roared with music that night, the kind of bass that rattled bones and blurred judgment. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, fractured light scattering across the dance floor where bodies writhed together. Cameras weren’t allowed inside, but Clara had made sure exceptions would be made. She had called certain paparazzi in advance, slipping them passes under the guise of
“exclusive coverage.”
Damian arrived looking uncomfortable, his broad shoulders stiff beneath the tailored suit. He wasn’t a man who liked noise or spectacle. But Clara knew how to trap him she offered him a drink, leaning close so her perfume clouded his thoughts, whispering encouragement.
“Relax, Damian,”
she purred, brushing her lips near his ear.
“They want to see that you’re enjoying yourself.
