Aodhan's POV

          The music is steady, low, and predictable. Like everything else in this room.

People dance because they want to be seen. They drink to forget they're ordinary. I watch from the balcony with my usual glass of Macallan in hand, bored before the night even begins.

It's opening night for Grey, my newest club. The lighting is perfect, the DJ is decent, and the crowd is exactly what I expected—money, hunger, and pretense. I should be satisfied. This is what I do: build empires, create desire, sell the illusion of control.

And yet, I feel nothing.

Until I see her.

She doesn't belong here. I know that instantly. She's standing near the bar, half-hiding behind her drink, eyes wide like she's trying to memorize the room and escape it all at once.

The red dress catches the light every time she moves—simple, not flashy, but on her it looks devastating. There's something about her that's... unpolished. Real. Like the world hasn't quite touched her yet.

I find myself leaning closer to the railing without realizing it.

Beside her, a friend is already laughing with two men, tossing her hair, loving the attention. The kind of woman I've known a thousand times. The one in red, though—she looks like she's counting the minutes until she can leave.

I smirk into my glass. Beautiful, nervous, out of place.
Perfect.

I shouldn't be intrigued. But I am.

Then she bumps into someone—a man who looks ready to scold her—and I catch the faintest glimpse of panic flash across her face before she apologizes. The stranger snaps at her, and I feel something sharp twist in my chest. Irritation.

When she turns to move away, she collides into me instead.

Her hand brushes my chest. Her perfume hits me—something soft, not the usual heavy designer scent. Vanilla and something floral. Unexpected.

"Watch where you're going," I say automatically. My tone's sharper than it needs to be, a reflex from years of being treated like I own every room.

But when she looks up—really looks—I forget what I was about to say next.

Big brown eyes, framed by lashes that don't need mascara. A flush spreads across her cheeks, maybe from the drink, maybe from embarrassment. She mutters an apology and starts to leave, but I find myself saying, quieter this time, "You shouldn't stand in the middle of the floor if you're not dancing."

The corner of her mouth twitches, like she's fighting an answer she won't give me. And then she's gone, lost in the crowd.

For a man who doesn't chase, I can't seem to stop watching her.

I track the red dress through the crowd as she rejoins her friend, trying to convince myself it's casual observation. It isn't. Every few minutes she looks around, shoulders tense, trying not to notice me.

When she heads back to the bar alone, I move too.

"Compliments of the gentleman upstairs," I tell the bartender, nodding toward her.

He delivers the drink. She looks up, confused, following his gesture until her gaze meets mine again. The spark hits just the same—recognition, interest, defiance.

This time, I don't look away.

And when she finally turns, I go after her.