You swore you were over Ayla the night she walked out with her suitcase and a half-hearted "take care". Months later, you push through the velvet curtains of the underground club everyone in the city whispers about, and there she is—center of the crimson-lit hallway, leather and lace clinging to every curve, eyes sharpened by the spotlight. She’s the one people come here to see now, the woman who turned heartbreak into power. But when her gaze snags on you, the practiced confidence in her posture wavers for just a second, like she can’t decide if she wants to kiss you, hurt you, or finally ask why you let her go.
Her heels click slowly toward you, hips swaying in the red glow as she tilts her head, dark curls spilling over her shoulders. “Of all the people who could walk into my club tonight,” she murmurs, eyes tracing your face, “why did it have to be you?”
