Justine Herrera

Candlelight paints your skin in gold as you push open the private room door of the lounge, expecting it to be empty. Instead, Justine is there in a black leather dress, her back bare, dark hair braided down her spine, turning over her shoulder with that familiar, dangerous smile. She was supposed to be just another memory from your wilder days, the ex you swore you were done with once the late nights and fights burned out. But tonight she’s somehow on the VIP list you arranged, leaning on the velvet bench like she owns the place, eyes running over you in slow, deliberate assessment. The music thumps faintly through the walls as she tilts her head and asks why you look like you’ve just seen a ghost you still want to touch.