Past never really leaves you.
Does it?
In my case, my past… a painful reminder of the woman I once was—soft, trusting, handing her heart to a man believing he would protect it. That naive girl has been buried under layers of calculation, defenses, and façades. But sometimes, even stone cracks.
I'm standing on the dance platform at Chi Lou. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I sway my hips, throw my hands up, let my body move with the dancers—beautiful women whose hips roll like water, encouraging me to set myself free.
"Damn, girl, you've got moves," Chole laughs, pulling me into her arms.
I smirk as I straighten. "Surely I do."
"She can dance like a slut, you know," Beatrix grins, her arm slinking around my waist like a secret only we share.
I giggle. Chole narrows her eyes. "That's a hell of a way to say it, Betty. Anyway, all these beautiful ladies are making me feel like I'm in the clouds."
I glance at Chole—three dancers surrounding her already. Chole has that pull. At 5'8, gym-toned, her wolf-cut hair and pushed-up bra making her cleavage look like art, she radiates a magnetism that draws both men and women.
Beatrix leans in, whispering playfully in my ear, "If she weren't a girl, I swear she'd be a playboy."
We giggle. My eyes dart to Jamila, who's devouring her food like it's her last meal. I shake my head, smiling. These women—my friends, my family—I wouldn't trade them for anything.
The red of Chi Lou is the deepest, brightest crimson I've ever seen. Red walls, red curtains, lamp light, cherry blossom trees in the center. Men and women being led away through doors. Guards drawing a curtain between the dance platform and the rest of the lounge.
Something tugs at me.
Then I see him.
A man.
Golden-blond hair like threads of sunlight woven into waves. Steel-gray eyes sharp enough to cut through flesh and soul. A jawline that could break hearts, high cheekbones catching dim light. Dressed in a black button-down showing a teasing sliver of his chest, sleeves rolled, a cigarette between lips I once kissed.
In an instant, everything blurs. A sharp ache spreads through my body. My hands go cold, my knees soft. The moment his gaze finds mine, time collapses.
For a heartbeat, the distance, the pain, the years don't matter. Once, there was a girl before this woman—one who built fortresses so high no one could shake them.
His eyes widen. His lips part as he removes his cigarette with long fingers—the same fingers that once traced my scars like constellations. His jaw clenches. I hold my breath like a fool.
Until a woman's hand snakes around his neck and pulls him down into a kiss.
And the echo of heartbreak returns. The girl who begged a man to stay. The girl who would have shared him just to keep a part of him. The girl who's now watching his hands wrap around someone else's waist, his eyes still on mine, mocking me.
Telling me without words: You're still the pathetic woman I pitied.
I turn away. Weak. How can I not be, when his memory still burns under my skin?
Half tipsy already, my head rings with his old whispers: You're just like your name suggests, my Beautiful Star.
Chole and Beatrix are lost in their laughter, Jamila gone from her table.
I stumble off the platform, grab a wine jar, and gulp until it's empty.
A slender woman steps into my path—pale, black hair cascading to her waist, light-brown eyes soft and considerate.
"Lady, why not retire for tonight? You look—"
"Pathetic," I bite out.
Her eyes widen. She shakes her head gently. "No. Not pathetic. Overwhelmed." Her smile is kind, understanding—the kind that makes the ache in my chest threaten to spill.
"Would you like to stay in one of our rooms?" she asks softly.
I grab another jar of wine and nod. "Tell my friends."
She nods, takes my arm, and leads me. I drink, stumble, she steadies me as we pass vases and fading music.
The fourth floor is silent, luxurious, crimson. Chi Lou's signature. My eyes are hazy, my head heavy. All I want is to shake off his ghost.
"Liah? Who did you bring to the fourth floor?"
I freeze. That voice—deep, rough, yet the calmest sound I've ever known.
I lift my head.
Cold arctic-blue eyes. Shock. Still in his office clothes, raven hair falling in soft waves across his brow.
"Oh—I didn't know you'd be here," the woman—Liah—stammers, her grip on me tightening.
Aaron walks toward us. Each step pounds against my ribs. His cologne—masculine, fresh, with the sweet trace of wine and the rough ash of cigarette—twists my stomach into knots.
"You're drunk, Princess," his voice is low.
I swallow hard, suddenly aware of the height difference between us.
"You—"
"Drive her back to her place, Liah." He cuts her off.
Liah lowers her head quickly. "Yes, sir."
His presence is commanding, intoxicating. Upright, unshaken. Everything about him calm, yet sensual in a way that undoes me.
And then I do something I'd never do sober—or maybe always wanted to do to erase the gray eyes haunting me.
I push Liah gently aside, grab his collar, pull him down to my level, and press my lips to his.
He freezes. His breath stops. Even without opening my eyes, I know his are wide with shock.
He doesn't kiss me back. His mouth stays closed. His hands limp at his sides.
I open my mouth anyway, tasting his lips—the lips that call me Princess like it means something. Sweet and fruity from wine, yet undeniably his.
I pull back slightly, my breath fanning over his cheek. Liah gasps behind me.
He's too close. Too handsome from this distance. And those blue eyes are staring at me like I've rewritten every rule he ever made.
My whisper is low, provocative:
"Make me forget everything but you, Aaron."