"Nayla!"
Adrian Moretti cried out, stepping through the crowd. His face was rigid, as if carved from stone. His gaze pierced through to one figure. Nayla Moretti, his younger sister.
She sat at the bar with crossed legs. A yellowish drink was clutched in her fingers. Undeniably, her body was too inviting, clad in something sheer and scandalously close to naked.
Hearing Adrian's voice, Nayla didn't even turn her head. She chose instead to offer a faint smile. Her brown eyes, with their thick lashes remained fixated on the shimmer of her glass.
Her slender fingers looked perfectly adorned with long, defiant red nails. Her cynical face was clearly caught under the mixed red and purple flashing lights. Though her expression was far from friendly, Nayla couldn't count how many hungry gazes devoured her body without shame.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Adrian hissed once he reached her.
He grabbed Nayla's arm, firm. Not enough to bruise, but certainly enough to pull her from the spotlight. And then, he dragged her to a darker, quieter corner of the lounge.
Nayla straightened her spine. "I'm just here to have fun."
Adrian clenched his jaw. His breathing was uneven. His eyes bloodshot, not from anger, but the weight of emotions crashing all at once. "Having fun or destroying yourself?"
Nayla chuckled. "I'm already destroyed, thanks to your brother-in-law."
He swallowed hard, silent for a beat. Then he said, "But that doesn't mean you have to become like this, Nay."
"Become what? I haven't even done anything. I don't need your protection, Adrian."
"Nayla…" His voice dropped, laced with pain. "This isn't you. You're hurt. You're spiraling. And now you're here, in a place filled with men who'd rip you apart and toss you out like trash. Is that what you call freedom?"
Her stare was razor-sharp. "You don't know what I feel."
"I know everything!" he exploded. "I know you haven't slept. You haven't eaten. I know Nathan shattered you. But showing up here, dressed like that, drink always in hand, falling apart, that's not healing. That's slow suicide."
She paused. Her eyes softened for a second. Then she downed the rest of her drink.
"Better to kill myself slowly than live in a marriage that feels like hell. A marriage you even supported from the start."
Adrian's face hardened. "You think I don't regret it? I thought Nathan was good for you. I thought he'd protect you… and I was wrong. But if you think I'll stand by while you burn, you're wrong."
Nayla looked down, then up again with expression void of emotion. "You can't save me, Adrian. I'm not even sure I want to be saved."
Adrian shut his eyes, ran his fingers through his hair like a man completely out of options. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. Broken.
"You're all I have, Nay. And if I lose you too, I don't know what I'm living for anymore."
Behind the constantly shifting lights, the deafening throb of the music, and the anger that hadn't completely faded, Nayla and Adrian could only stand in silence. Their gazes clashed, yet neither lost nor won. Both were swallowed by a distance that seemed never truly bridgeable.
Without another word, Adrian finally chose to leave. His emotions were still erupting. However, continuing to pressure Nayla didn't seem like the right solution.
"Go home, Nay." That was all that escaped Adrian's lips before his shadow disappeared.
After Adrian left, Nayla remained standing in the same spot. For a few moments, her eyes stared blankly at the floor. Her hand still clutched the empty glass, but her soul seemed to have detached. She was caught in a cruel space between guilt and the desire to disappear entirely.
It felt exhausting, suffocating, and dying all at once. Nayla needed at least a drop of water or a gentle caress of the wind to keep her alive.
And then, as if summoned by silent desperation, the atmosphere around her shifted.
Something, or rather, someone, approached Nayla. The sound of leather shoes on the marble floor was heavy, yet measured. In the glittering ocean of club lights, a man's silhouette then appeared in the doorway.
Tall. Broad. Cloaked in shadows.
No smile. No charm. But his presence… it trembled.
Nayla knew exactly who he was. Damian Bellucci.
Her brother's best friend. A name Adrian often spoke with a mix of familiarity and respect. A man known for a reputation far darker than his rare smile.
His black suit wrapped his tall frame like it had been tailored by the night itself. Light didn't reach his face, but Nayla felt that those eyes were locked on her.
For a heartbeat, time froze. Her breath caught. Damian's gaze was like obsidian that reflected no light. Its coldness was piercing. Its heat, burning.
Nayla tried to turn away, but her body wouldn't obey. It felt locked. As if Damian was an unavoidable danger.
"Nayla Moretti."
He began to close the distance. Slowly. Calmly. Like a predator who knew his prey wouldn't run.
At a mere step away, he finally spoke. "Should I call Adrian back, or should I take it from here?"
Nayla swallowed. Her eyes met his, and for the first time, she felt seen. Not as Adrian's sister. Not as a betrayed wife. But as a woman.
A woman who wanted to be ruined, and maybe, secretly, wanted to enjoy it.
"Take it," she whispered. Barely audible. But loud enough to sharpen his gaze.
Damian didn't answer. But his eyes said everything.
The dangerous game had begun.
Damian had chosen his prey.
And Nayla Moretti was far too tired to hide.
Initially, everything flowed naturally. But in a flash of reflex from broken pride, she pulled her shoulders back. A small gesture, but one bursting with meaning. As if her last vestiges of strength gathered there.
The weakness and carelessness that had almost consumed her now transformed into cynicism. In an instant, Nayla successfully built a shield as self-defense against the danger now before her eyes.
"Wait. I think I misspoke. Alcohol made me forget who you are," Nayla said.
"And who am I, then?"
Nayla looked at Damian for a moment. Her head tilted slightly. Her lips lifted, forming a cynical smile.
"Who am I?" Damian asked for the second time.
"Men like you…" Her voice was sharp now, though still laced with tremor. "Will think the world can be bought with power and cheap seduction."
Nayla knew it wasn't a fair statement. Too accusatory. But let it be. After all, the world had never been fair to her either. To a woman betrayed, abandoned, then ridiculed when trying to heal herself in her own way.
"Really?" Damian retorted.
Nayla's head continued to spin, dizzy, and slightly light-headed. Her heartbeat pounded erratically. But one thing was clear, Nayla would not be prey without a fight.
If Damian wanted to play, she would dare to compete.
Even if Nayla's only possibility was… to lose.
"I know I'm not the first person you've tried to charm with arrogance," Nayla said, chin tilted upward. "And you should know, I won't be another sin in your collection."
Damian stepped closer. Just one step. But it shifted the air.
"But here you are," he said, voice a hushed blade. "Standing in my club, wearing sin like second skin."
Her heart slammed in her chest. She should've left. But her feet were too firmly rooted.
Damian's face then drew closer, almost touching her nose. Silently. Unhurriedly.
Nayla didn't step back. Or maybe, part of her didn't want to.
Her body met the wall as Damian closed in. One hand braced against the wall beside her head. The other remained in his pocket, as if he didn't need both to dominate the space.
Damian's lips then moved to her cheek, then stopped near her ear. Not quite touching, but Nayla could already smell his captivating scent. He smelled arrogant. Yet, this arrogance felt like an arrogance she was willing to swallow.
He didn't touch her. But his presence felt like the most intimate touch of all. It carved into her. Stripped her down. Demanded.
"I don't seduce, Nayla," Damian said, voice low, sin whispered in silk. "I take. And you—"
"I'm not yours!" she snapped, chin high, eyes blazing.
Damian stared at her. Unflinching. A slow, dangerous smirk curled his lips.
"Yet."