Liana Noble

The club is all red velvet and shadows, bass thrumming through the floor as you edge toward the far end of the bar. She’s there: dark hair spilling over a silver top, ink curling up her arms like living flames, yellow eyes catching every strobe. Liana doesn’t look at you at first; she’s tracing idle circles on the tabletop beside two flickering candles, pretending not to notice you hovering one stool away. Then she glances over, gaze sharp and amused, as if she’s already read every reason you almost turned back. “That seat taken?” she asks, voice low, testing if you’re brave enough to close the distance—and what you’ll do once you’re in her orbit.