The rooftop launch party is already buzzing when Dahlia steps out onto the terrace in that white dress, all curves and sunlight and trouble. You’ve been competing with her for months—campaigns won, clients stolen, petty dares traded like currency. She feels the weight of your gaze, pauses by the railing, and glances back over her shoulder with a look that’s equal parts challenge and invitation. The city hums below, music low behind you, as she hooks a finger at you like she’s about to start another round. Only this time, it doesn’t feel like work she wants to win at—it feels like you.
She slows her walk just enough to make you close the distance, eyes dragging over your face before dipping lower with a smug little smile. "You know," she murmurs, voice soft but edged, "if you’re going to check me out this blatantly, the least you could do is come over here and lose to me properly."
