S1 - E5 - I CAME I SAW I CONQUERED

ACT 1

OPENING SCENE - THE BAIT

The perfume radiating from her struck just the right accord, and Ben, standing behind her, rammed relentlessly. his pants down to his ankles, her draws below her hips. her hands steady against the window. Working his way into a patient climax, he took pleasure in looking down at her reddening cheeks. They were his for the taking.

He'd met her the night before at a bar. Tall, blonde, slender with a raspy voice. She'd do just fine, at least for a few weeks until he'd broken in Chicago. Other than her line of work, a lower level employee at Venture Global, which he found out after the first time they'd had sex, he didn't ask about her. She'd eyed him all night in the bar and he figured she'd had an angle, but Ben knew how to protect himself from gold-diggers.

He gripped her hips, pulling her towards him with each strike forward. The intense clapping sound drove him closer to closure. And even now, inebriated with alcohol and moments from climax, Ben remained partially focused. He focused on the back of her head, nodding to her cadence, then to the wedding band on her finger, and lastly again to her reddening cheeks.

But when that moment arrived, he pulled out firing at will into the air. Even at a young age of 26, he'd listened to his father enough to know that women were dangerous. No way he'd get caught impregnating a random booty-call, and especially another man's wife. And the fact that she worked for venture Global and met him 'by chance' at a bar on the other side of the Loop, did not go unnoticed.

"Take care," said Ben, pulling up his pants and fitting his penis neatly into his draws to show as little bulge or imprint as possible. He fixed his shirt and tie in the mirror, he'd promised to have dinner with his father.

JUNE

June Choi didn’t wait for things to come to her—she seized them before they knew they belonged to her.

Morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Venture Global’s executive wing, casting long shadows over the polished marble floors. June strode past the rows of desks like she owned them, her stiletto heels clicking against the pristine surface. Every move was deliberate, every glance calculated. People knew better than to waste her time.

She had spent the last forty-eight hours tearing through industry reports, scrutinizing contract structures, and ensuring that when she made this play, there would be no room for failure. The numbers were clear: Travis Mayflower’s label wasn’t just a promising underground movement—it was an opportunity to shape culture itself.

And she wanted it.

At the end of the corridor, her personal assistant, Eliot, was already standing at attention, his tablet clutched like a lifeline. Junedidn’t slow down as she approached.

"Get Mayflower in my office this afternoon," she instructed, voice clipped, efficient.

Eliot barely blinked. "Already in motion. His manager was hesitant, but I reminded him who’s extending the offer."

June smirked, sharp and knowing. "Good. Send a car. Make sure he knows this isn’t just another meeting—this is the meeting."

Eliot nodded, already typing out the arrangements, but June’s mind was ahead of the conversation. The gears were turning. Travis would hesitate, of course—men like him always did when they realized what real power looked like. But hesitation was weakness, and June knew how to strip weakness down to nothing.

She turned toward the wide glass wall of her office, eyes settling on the Chicago skyline, the city humming beneath her. This was what winners saw—their playground, their battlefield. Travis Mayflower was about to learn exactly what it meant to play in her world.

ZACK -

The silence of an empty lecture hall wasn’t true silence. It was something more deceptive—an absence that held every conversation, every whisper, every unfinished thought long after the voices had gone.

Zack sat at his desk, thumb absently tracing the rim of his coffee mug, his gaze drifting toward the row of chairs lined neatly before him. A completely ordinary sight. Nothing out of place. But somehow, one chair stood out—not because it was different, but because of what it reminded him of.

Noura had always leaned forward when she listened, elbows braced on the edge of the desk, chin tucked under her knuckles. Thoughtful, engaged, curious in ways that made philosophy feel like an extension of breathing rather than an academic pursuit.

That was months ago. A different setting, a different country. It should’ve stayed there—contained, archived.

And yet, the messages had started again.

Zack unlocked his phone, the screen casting a muted glow against the cold steel of his desk.

Noura: Miss our conversations.

Nothing dramatic. No proclamations, no unresolved accusations. Just simple words that carried a weight disproportionate to their brevity.

He should ignore it. He’d told himself that before. Yet, his thumb hovered over the keyboard, caught in the uneasy tension between what was reasonable and what was human.

"Efron."

Zack glanced up. Professor Levin, the department head, stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, studying Zack the way people study things they can’t quite diagnose yet.

"Got a minute?"

Zack gestured vaguely toward the empty classroom. "Plenty."

Levin stepped inside, his posture relaxed but his presence weighty. A man who never wasted words. He slid his hands into his pockets, exhaled lightly.

"Inquiry’s dropped."

The words landed softer than Zack had expected.

"They spoke with the student. Nothing inappropriate. No further action."

Zack let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He nodded, slow. "That’s good."

"It is." Levin studied him a beat longer. "But you look like a guy who’s still carrying it."

Zack leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingers against his temples for a moment before shaking it off. No sense in explaining a weight that didn’t have a name.

"Appreciate the update, Professor."

Levin nodded once, his expression unreadable, before turning to leave.

Zack watched the door swing closed behind him. The message from Noura still sat open on his phone.

The case was closed. But cases being closed didn’t mean things disappeared.

He typed out a response. Paused.

Then deleted it.

TRAVIS - WEIGHTED DREAMS

The rhythm of the house shifted as the day aged.

Morning belonged to his daughter—a world of cereal spills, cartoon theme songs, and tiny hands tugging at his sleeve. Afternoons, though, were quieter, the space marked by his grandmother’s slow movements and the hum of her old radio playing gospel hymns that clung to the walls like incense.

Travis leaned back against the kitchen chair, phone face-down on the table, trying not to let his thoughts run ahead of him.

Venture Global. June Choi. Executive Investor. Meeting scheduled for this afternoon.

He could almost hear the weight of the words pressing against his ribs. He scratched at his jaw, uncertain if this was the moment he’d been waiting for, or just another version of a trap.

Across from him, Toya leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the way his fingers drummed absentmindedly against the tabletop.

"You already decided you ain't going?" she asked, voice even, knowing him too well.

Travis exhaled. "I don’t trust corporate money."

She smirked. "You don’t trust anybody."

Fair point. Still, something about this felt different. Or maybe that Korean chick just knew how to make it feel that way.

"If I sell a percentage, I lose leverage," he muttered, half to himself, half to Toya. "Publishing rights, masters—it’s not just about the money."

Toya studied him for a moment, then sighed, pushing off the counter.

"So don’t sell."

Travis pressed his palm against the tabletop, searching for steadiness in the wood grain. "It’s not that simple."

"It is." Toya grabbed his phone in one swift movement, flipping it back toward him.

"Stop talking like they already own you. It’s a meeting."

She slid the phone across the table, an invitation as much as a challenge.

"Go hear them out. If it’s trash, you walk.

Travis rolled his shoulders back, staring at the invitation again.

The weight of dreams was tricky. Some lifted you. Some buried you.

This could be his chance. Or it could be a mistake.

Either way, he was walking into something that would change everything.

ACT 2

JUNE

The first rule of power was simple: control the terms before the opponent knows they’re playing.

June sat at the head of a glass conference table, fingers flicking through reports while the city stretched beyond her office window—bright, restless, insignificant.

The legal contracts were meticulous. The research was flawless. Travis Mayflower’s label wasn’t just promising—it was volatile in the best way. Independent. Hungry. Perfect for acquisition.

"He’s on his way," Eliot said from the doorway, tablet in hand.

June didn’t look up.

"Did he hesitate?"

"A little."

Of course he did. They always did.

She closed the file in front of her with a crisp snap. This was the moment where men like Travis made choices bigger than their understanding.

By the time this meeting was over, June would know exactly how much of a fight he thought he had left.

TRAVIS

Stepping out of his battered ride, Travis instantly felt the jolt—a collision of worlds—as he crossed Venture Global’s sleek, polished lobby. The hiss of automatic doors and the muted hum of pristine marble underfoot reminded him he was far from home. Every gleaming surface and silenced conversation underscored the distance between his world of beat-up trucks and backstreet dreams, and this high-rise den of power.

Inside the elevator, he pressed his palm against the cool metal wall while his mind churned in a familiar rhythm. "That Korean chick – June Choi – thinks she can rewrite the rules of the game. But is it an upgrade, or just another trap?" He studied his phone overdose of emails and calendar alerts. The meeting invitation glowed, concise and uncompromising: “Meet me today, if you’re ready to play.”

At last, the elevator doors slid open onto a polished corridor. Travis walked briskly, feeling every inch the outsider as he approached an unassuming door marked “June Choi, Executive.” The corridor’s sterility clashed with the raw energy in his chest—an electric tension between his relentless hunger for success and a deep-seated distrust of corporate promises.

He paused a moment outside the office, gathering his thoughts, when the door swung open by itself. Inside, the atmosphere shifted.

June stood by a massive window, the Chicago skyline a glittering tapestry behind her. Her dark, sleek hair was pulled back into a perfectly tailored bun, and her eyes—cold, calculating yet impossibly magnetic—seemed to strip the room of any pretense. Dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that hinted at both power and refined danger, she was every bit the executive icon. In that instant, despite everything he had said to himself about not getting pulled in, Travis couldn’t help but note the undeniable allure of her high-maintenance polish and the poised air of someone who commanded every space she entered.

A brief, measured greeting passed between them. “Good afternoon, Travis,” she said smoothly, her tone both inviting and edged with authority. He offered a curt nod before his voice, tinged with cautious curiosity, finally broke the controlled silence: “June, why am I here?”

JUNE

June studied Travis with quiet precision, noting everything—his posture, his barely masked skepticism, the way his presence disrupted the polished stillness of her office. Men like him didn’t belong here—not in this world of calculated decisions and expensive risks—but that was exactly why she found him useful.

She leaned against the glass-topped conference table, fingers skimming the edge of a contract she had yet to unveil. Her movements were deliberate—never rushed, always designed for control.

"Travis," she began, her voice cool, efficient. "You’re here because people with power recognize value in what you do. That isn’t charity. It isn’t luck. It’s leverage."

His shoulders tensed slightly. He was reading the room, trying to decide whether this was an opportunity or a setup. June watched his hesitation with quiet interest—it was rare for men to hide their ambitions from her.

She stepped forward, her designer heels clicking softly against the floor, closing the space between them with quiet authority. He smelled like the outside world—like train platforms and cigarette smoke, like late-night music sessions in cramped apartments. She didn’t find it unpleasant, just unfamiliar.

"You’ve built something raw," she continued, fingers tracing over the glossy edge of a portfolio on the table. "But raw only gets you so far. The industry doesn’t wait for underground success stories—it curates them. If you don’t control your own narrative, someone else will."

She tilted her head slightly, studying him. Travis was black, South Side bred, built for survival in ways she never had to be. He had a certain swagger, the kind that made people lean forward when he spoke, but swagger wasn’t enough to stay ahead in this game—not when the people making the real decisions had never set foot in neighborhoods like his.

"People will call this a sellout move," she said, her tone unreadable. "They’ll say you handed your independence over to a Korean businesswoman who doesn’t get it—who doesn’t get you."

Travis met her gaze, something sharp flickering behind his eyes. She wasn’t wrong—but she wasn’t right either.

"Thing is," June continued, her tone softer but no less precise, "I don’t have to understand your story to recognize its marketability. I don’t have to live your life to know how valuable it is to the right people."

His jaw clenched slightly, and June let the silence stretch between them. She enjoyed watching him wrestle with the weight of the decision.

Then the door swung open.

Ben walked in, his presence a disruption, an unwelcome shift in the power balance.

June didn’t bother masking her irritation. She had curated this moment carefully, and Ben arriving uninvited was nothing short of sabotage.

"You’re early," she said flatly, eyes narrowing.

Ben raised an eyebrow, glancing between Travis and June before settling into his usual smirk. "Thought I’d drop in. Figured this meeting would be… interesting."

June felt Travis’s attention shift, sensing the tension between them. Good. It was important for him to see that even the people who pretended to be on her side weren’t always allies.

Inside, she was already calculating her next move.

BEN -

Ben didn’t announce himself when he stepped into the office—he never needed to. Presence was enough.

June’s expression flickered with irritation before smoothing into something unreadable. She didn’t like disruptions. Especially not his.

Travis, on the other hand, was still weighing her words, his posture tense with the weight of decisions he wasn’t ready to make. Perfect. Ben had walked in at the right moment—not to interrupt, but to observe, to let his presence be felt just enough to make June recalculate without saying a word.

He took his time glancing between them, leaning against the frame of the door, posture relaxed in the way that suggested control without effort.

"Thought I’d drop in," he said casually, like the meeting was nothing more than a passing curiosity. "Figured this would be… interesting."

June didn’t immediately respond. Instead, she measured him, a quiet calculation that never stopped when he was around. She knew he was watching, knew that even without speaking, he had taken stock of everything—the tension in Travis’s stance, the unspoken challenges between them.

Ben let the silence linger, enjoying it.

Then June shifted gears.

"Tell you what," she said, voice smooth, calculated. "Take a few days and think it over if you like. But if you’re really curious—if you want to see what power looks like—I’ll be at Tunnel tonight."

Ben’s gaze flicked toward her, catching the subtle shift in her tone. The invitation wasn’t necessary.

Travis barely reacted, still processing the weight of the meeting, but Ben knew better. June didn’t make casual invitations.

"If there’s a follow-up at Tunnel," he said smoothly, "I’d like to be there."

June’s jaw tightened—so subtle that Travis wouldn’t notice, but Ben caught it. He always caught the small things.

Ben stayed still, watching.

Travis, hesitating only for a moment, reached for the business card June slid toward him. There was a quiet weight in the motion—the acknowledgment of a choice that had yet to be made.

June, ever composed, gave him nothing extra. No pleasantries, no pressure. She had already laid out the game. Now it was his turn to move.

With the card tucked between his fingers, Travis nodded—brief, unreadable—before heading for the door. He didn’t rush, but he didn’t linger either. Smart. He knew enough to leave before the air got heavy.

Ben, on the other hand, wasn’t done.

As the door clicked shut behind Travis, he adjusted his stance—not aggressive, just intentional. Enough for June to know that his presence wasn’t a loose end she could ignore.

"You’ll keep me in the loop, won’t you?" he asked, smooth, deliberate. Not a demand, not a question. Just a reminder.

June exhaled slowly, fingers resting against the tabletop. A flicker of restraint—irritation carefully managed.

"Naturally," she replied, the single word carrying as much tension as the entire meeting.

Ben smiled, satisfied. She didn’t have to like it. She just had to accept it.

ROBERTO – CHANCE ENCOUNTERS

The mall felt colder than it should have. Maybe it was just the AC blasting too hard, or maybe Roberto had gotten used to the feeling of places like this being a little too empty for him. He wasn’t exactly the social type—at least not the kind who could drift through crowds effortlessly.

Not that this was the usual kind of crowd.

A teenage couple passed him on the escalator, locked in a giggling conversation that he vaguely envied. A woman in scrubs hurried toward the food court, probably squeezing in dinner between shifts. Families moved through department stores, their kids begging for toys, sneakers, or whatever was trendy this week. Roberto kept his hands in his jacket pockets, glancing at the storefronts without really seeing them.

Coming to the mall wasn’t exactly a choice—it was just the easiest place to kill time before heading home. Nothing waited for him there except a takeout meal and maybe a movie before bed. Dating hadn’t exactly worked out for him. It never did.

Near the entrance of a small bookstore, Roberto found himself scanning the magazine rack—pretending to care about finance journals, flipping through pages with no intention of buying anything.

That’s when she walked in.

Ramona.

Or at least, a woman who looked like she had something interesting behind her eyes. She wasn’t rushing like the others, wasn’t lost in the noise of consumerism. She moved with purpose, but not like someone trying to escape something—more like someone waiting for something to happen.

Roberto wasn’t the kind to initiate things. But as Ramona passed by, something about her hesitation—about the way she lingered, eyeing a book but not reaching for it—made him speak.

"You ever read that one?" he asked, regretting it almost instantly. His voice came out a little more unsure than he’d wanted.

Ramona turned, surprised, her gaze flickering over him before settling on the book.

"Not yet," she admitted, tilting her head. "Why? Is it worth it?"

Roberto shrugged. "No idea. Been standing here long enough that I figured I should ask somebody if it was actually good."

Ramona gave him a look—something between mild amusement and curiosity. "You killing time too, huh?"

Roberto hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Pretty much."

The exchange hung awkwardly between them for a beat before Ramona finally reached for the book.

"I guess I’ll read it and let you know," she said, flipping to the first page like she actually might.

Roberto, watching, found himself blurting out something before he could stop himself.

"You know, statistically speaking, most people who pick up a book in a bookstore don’t actually finish it."

Ramona paused mid-page turn and raised an eyebrow. "Is that… an actual statistic?"

Roberto hesitated. "I mean… probably? But also, I just made that up because I didn’t know what else to say."

A beat.

Then, to his relief, Ramona smirked, shaking her head. "Wow. Impressive commitment to nonsense."

Roberto exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, it’s kind of my specialty."

She held out her phone. "Well, if I actually do finish this book, I guess I’ll need to text you just to prove you wrong."

He chuckled as he entered his number. "You know what? Fair."

Roberto tucked his phone into his pocket, still feeling the lingering warmth of the exchange. He’d handed his number to a stranger before—sure. But not like this.

It wasn’t the kind of calculated move his friends bragged about, the scripted confidence, the “game.” No, this was different.

She had asked for it.

Not reluctantly, not as a joke, not as a pity move. Just like that.

As he stepped away from the bookstore, weaving through the crowd, Roberto felt the edges of a smile pull at his lips—just barely.

For the first time in a while, he didn’t feel invisible.

RAMONA – DREAMY

Ramona was floating. Not literally—her feet were still planted firmly on the glossy mall floor—but something in the way she moved felt lighter, like the world had decided to tilt ever so slightly in her favor.

She tucked her phone into her coat pocket, fingers brushing over the screen one last time as if double-checking reality. She had actually asked for his number. Just like that. No awkward hesitation, no second-guessing, no calculated timing. It had happened effortlessly.

Her sisters were never going to believe this.

Passing by a row of boutique shops, Ramona caught her own reflection in a storefront window. A slow smirk tugged at her lips. Was she standing taller? Was she actually walking with some confidence for once?

She giggled—an actual, real giggle, the kind that felt foreign coming out of her own mouth.

Without thinking, she pulled out her phone and hit dial.

"Diablo, hermana," she said the moment her sister picked up. "You are not going to believe what I just did."

"Que hiciste? Ate three desserts in one sitting?"

Ramona rolled her eyes but grinned anyway. "No. I asked a guy for his number."

A loud, exaggerated gasp came through the speaker. "Wey, tu estás relajando!"

Ramona laughed, shifting her bag on her shoulder. "I know, right? I didn’t even plan it. It just… pasó."

"You mean he asked for it, and you just handed it over?"

"No!" Ramona insisted, her own excitement surprising her. "I was the one who said he should take my number. Like I was in control of the situation or something."

"Excuse me?" Her sister practically screeched. "Tú te tiraste!?"

Ramona popped the ‘p’ in her response, smug. "Yep."

There was a pause. A dramatic, Dominican pause. The kind loaded with disbelief and admiration, like her sister was genuinely questioning if this was real life.

Then finally, breathless and delighted:

"Ay, pero qué mujerón! This is growth!"

Ramona chuckled, dodging a group of teens as she moved toward the food court. "I guess it kinda is, huh?"

"So, tell me, quién es el tigre? He cute? He got swagger or nah?"

Ramona slowed her pace, hesitating for just a second.

She hadn’t exactly sized Roberto up like that. Hadn’t run through the usual checklist—height, jawline, whether his shoes looked expensive or looked like they had a story to tell. She had just… enjoyed the moment.

"Hmm," she hummed thoughtfully. "I think I’ll figure that out later."

Her sister groaned dramatically. "Dios mío, mujer! You’re killing me."

Ramona just grinned, weaving through the mall crowd with a pep in her step she hadn’t felt in ages.

TRAVIS – BEFORE THE STORM

The house was still.

Not silent—never silent—but still in a way that felt unfamiliar. His daughter was with his grandmother for the night, the house emptied of cartoon theme songs, cereal bowls, and tiny interruptions.

This was rare.

Travis leaned against the kitchen counter, one hand gripping a sweating glass, condensation tracing lazy trails against his fingertips. The dim overhead light flickered once before steadying, casting a dull glow over the worn wooden surface beneath him.

He was stalling.

Tunnel was waiting. June was waiting.

Travis ran a palm over his jaw, exhaling sharply. His mind circled the same thoughts: Was he walking into a deal—or a trap?

June Choi was smart. Too smart. Her calculated moves weren’t random, and Travis knew better than to assume any part of this was casual. But June Choi? She was different—or at least, different enough that he hadn’t quite figured her angle yet.

He felt something there, something unspoken but thick enough to linger in the air between them. Maybe it was just the tension of negotiation. Maybe it was nothing.

But Ben had noticed it.

That alone made Travis pause.

He swirled the liquor in his glass absently, watching the slow movement before knocking it back in one measured motion.

Enough stalling.

Travis pressed his palms flat against the countertop, grounding himself in something tangible. No distractions. No doubts.

Tonight, he would walk into Tunnel with his head clear.

Whatever was brewing between himself and June—whatever heat, whatever hesitation—it would not overshadow the deal.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Travis grabbed his keys, rolled his shoulders back, and stepped into the night.

ACT 3

TRAVIS - TUNNEL VISION

Tunnel wasn’t just a club—it was a statement.

The entrance alone made that clear. No chaotic crowds, no drunk patrons spilling onto the sidewalk like the spots he knew. This was precision, order, exclusivity. The kind of place where you didn’t get in unless someone wanted you in.

Travis didn’t belong here. Not yet.

But tonight? Tonight, he was inside.

Stepping through the entryway, his gaze swept the room, taking in the curated energy—the deep blue and violet hues slicing through the dark, the steady pulse of bass weaving through voices subdued with confidence. No desperation here. No hustlers pretending they were something more.

This was real money, real power.

Travis rolled his shoulders back, adjusting to the shift in atmosphere. This wasn’t like the neighborhood bars where hands slapped backs and voices carried without consequence. Tunnel was controlled, calculated. Every movement held purpose.

And if he played this right?

He could own this.

Not just the money, not just the connections—but the perception, the weight his name would carry, the respect.

That kind of success came with a price. And Travis wasn’t sure how much he was willing to pay.

Not yet.

He caught sight of June Choi, her presence effortless, already woven into the fabric of the room. She was exactly where she belonged—and she knew it.

The game was beginning.

JUNE CHOI - SETTING THE TONE

Tunnel was a machine.

Not in the cold, metallic way—no, this was something fluid, something alive. A carefully engineered system where status, influence, and money pulsed through veins of dimly lit booths and whispered conversations.

She thrived in places like this.

From her spot at the bar, June caught sight of Travis entering, scanning the room, adjusting to the shift in atmosphere. He was watching—learning.

Good. That meant he understood the weight of where he was.

She let him approach without signaling—without inviting or dismissing. A calculated move. Let him dictate the opening energy.

"Quite the upgrade from your usual haunts, hm?" she mused, taking a slow sip of her drink, watching him absorb the room.

Travis didn’t immediately react—he was reading her, searching for meaning in the words, as if trying to decide whether it was a compliment or a challenge.

"New spaces take getting used to," he replied, measured but not stiff.

June smirked. Smart answer. Not defensive, not overeager. Controlled.

She gestured toward the bartender, signaling for another round. "Drinks first. Then business."

Travis nodded, rolling with her pace.

Tonight would move exactly how she wanted it to.

POV 3 – TRAVIS LOOSENING UP

Tunnel’s energy had shifted.

The music pulsed deeper now, weaving through the conversations, slipping into the cracks between thoughts. Alcohol had a way of smoothing the edges, blurring hesitation into curiosity.

Travis wasn’t drunk, not really—but he was relaxed enough to engage without the constant weight of calculation.

June was still unreadable.

Their conversation was fluid, efficient. She was sharp, always steering it where she wanted, yet never making it feel forced. He respected that. Admired it.

But admiration wasn’t distraction.

Business remained at the forefront, even as he found himself watching her movements, the way she carried the space around her like it was designed for her alone.

If she was interested in him—even remotely—he wouldn’t know. She was out of his league anyway.

But that wasn’t why he was here.

The deal was the priority.

Even as the air grew heavier around them.

JUNE – THE CLOSING DANCE

She had him exactly where she wanted him.

The deal wasn’t signed—not yet—but Travis was in the right space. Loosened up, engaged, absorbing the atmosphere in a way that suggested he was teetering on a decision.

And June? June was patient.

She let the conversation simmer, ebbing between the polished business talk and the quiet intensity that came with proximity. Alcohol did half the work—she handled the rest.

Then, effortlessly, she shifted the setting.

"Let’s dance."

She didn’t frame it as a request. Didn’t ask, didn’t suggest. Just said it.

Travis didn’t hesitate—good. That meant he was comfortable enough to follow.

The bass deepened as they stepped onto the floor, swallowed by neon haze, rhythmic movement, a space where conversation faded into action.

She kept it subtle, effortless, but intentional—a brush of fingertips, the tilt of her head, the slow, measured way she moved.

Not enough to make it obvious. Enough to make him notice.

The contract wasn't meant to be signed tonight, but it would be soon.

Because after tonight? Travis would want to come back.