IVY GALANIS' POV
Pinch me.
No, seriously, somebody pinch me and tell me I am not standing in front of the White Bunny right now.
Never in any universe would I have pictured myself here. Not watching it from a cab window, not scrolling past it on social media, and definitely not walking through its iconic glass doors in heels that cost more than my rent.
Everything looks like it has been dipped in stardust and money — from the marble steps under my feet to the mirrored columns and the velvet ropes guarded by men in suits that look custom-sewn to their DNA. Even the night air feels expensive, perfumed with something I can't name.
This place looks exactly like in the photos — luxurious, exclusive, and two light-years out of my tax bracket. This is not just a club; it is a statement. It is a living, breathing hierarchy; a silent reminder that wealth could build worlds out of sound and light.
And Maya? She has pulled out her best card yet.
Maya bumps my shoulder. "Close your mouth, Ivy. You are gonna swallow the glitter."
"I can't believe you got us in," I whisper as the doorman scans her phone.
"We are not just in," she corrects, flashing her VIP QR code with a wink. "We are invited. Act like you belong."
Right. Act like I belong.
The moment we step inside, sound swallows everything else. The bass seems to rise from beneath the floor, heavy and alive, mixing with laughter and the clink of glasses. Light spills everywhere: violet, gold, red. The room looks alive, like a living pulse of money and sin.
I lift my chin, trying for casual confidence, but my stomach is a war zone. My dress suddenly feels shorter and tighter; my skin feels more exposed. Everyone around us is so tall, sculpted, and draped in expensive fabrics — like they stepped straight out of a billionaire's mood board. They are built like Greek gods and goddesses, essentially.
Meanwhile, I feel like a pair of knockoffs in a YSL aisle.
"Girl," Maya says, already swaying her hips to the rhythm, "breathe. You look like a lost child."
I try, I really do, but I can't bring myself to act completely natural. Not when celebrities I have only ever seen through cracked phone screens stand merely twenty feet away. Even the bartenders look editorial. I literally feel like a fish cast onto a diamond-studded beach.
"Come on," Maya grins, pulling me toward the bar area. "Time to get you a drink before you short-circuit." Then she adds, "We are not leaving until someone flirts with you very aggressively. I did not dress you like a sexy mermaid in heat for nothing."
I groan, feeling embarrassed by her tease. "May—"
"No-uh. No complaints, my masterpiece. Tonight, you are the fantasy."
Her words sound like a joke, but I catch something else in her tone, something that almost feels possessive. Still, I smile it off. It is just Maya being Maya.
The bar is a masterpiece of temptation — mirrored shelves, gold-lined bottles, light catching on every glass rim. Even the barstools look rich. Maya waves to the bartender like she owns the place.
He is all jawline and dimples, the kind of man who probably practices smirking in front of a mirror and wins every time.
"Welcome, ladies," he says, his accent soft and sounding quite foreign for Cali. "What will it be tonight?"
"Are you flirting?" Maya teases, tilting her head.
"If you'd like me to, mademoiselle."
"Ooooo, I like this one." She leans into me, stage-whispering much to the hearing of the guy.
I laugh nervously, cheeks burning. The bartender chuckles too, clearly amused by our dynamic.
"Well," she grins like she has found a new toy. "I would love to have your dirtiest martini. Surprise me."
"And you, love?" he turns to me.
"A. . . mojito for me," I say, my voice wobbling but not enough to betray me.
As he starts mixing, Maya leans in close, her breath brushing my ear. "You are glowing, sugar plum."
"I am sweating."
"Same difference," she says, returning her attention to her latest person of interest.
The clatter of bottles, the hiss of a shaker, the gleam of glass reflecting the bar lights — everything feels exaggerated, cinematic. I catch my reflection in the mirrored shelf behind the bar; glittered eyeshadow, wine red lips, shoulders squared just enough to fake a non-existent confidence. For a split second, I almost believe I fit in here.
The bartender spins the final bottle with a little theatrical flair before sliding our drinks over. Maya downs hers like it is nothing; I sip mine slowly, letting the sharp mint coat my tongue, cooling my nerves.
Around us, the night unfolds — people pressed close, laughter stitched into bass, designer colognes colliding mid-air.
Time passes strangely inside the White Bunny. The longer you stay, the less you can tell how long it has been. The songs blend together. The lights pulse in rhythm with your blood. Somewhere nearby, a woman throws her head back laughing, and her diamond choker catches the light like a small galaxy. A man whispers to another man, sharing something that looks too intimate to be gossip. Their suits brushing against each other, their mouths too close for comfort but too beautiful to look away from. A woman with white braids dances like the world is her pedestal, moving like liquid silver under the strobe lights.
It should all be intoxicating. It should be easy to get lost in.
And yet, something shifts.
I feel it before I see it. A prickling awareness between my shoulders, like a string being tugged; a tingle down my spine. A pulse behind my ribs, sharp and unfamiliar. That weird, animal sense of being seen.
I don't know why I look up — maybe instinct, maybe curiosity — but my gaze drifts toward the upper floor. The private booths sit behind tinted black glass, almost blending into the shadows. That is where the real elite are, the kind of people whose names you only ever hear in scandal headlines.
At first, there is nothing distinct. Just outlines. Movement.
But then — one still figure. I can't see the face, but I can feel the gaze like heat waves through glass. It is strange, heavy awareness — not threatening exactly.
My breath catches. I blink. And just like that, it is gone.
The hair on my arms prickles, even as the music swells again.
"Don't tell me you are checking out the VVIP floor," Maya says, catching my gaze. She laughs, unaware of the chill crawling down my spine. "That is where the scandalous and the scary hang out. Definitely not your scene."
I force a small laugh. "Yeah. . . totally not."
She grins, returning to her second drink, but my eyes find their way back to the mirror. Nothing has changed. Everything looks the same — gold lights, perfect smiles, people gyrating to the music.
But something feels. . . off.
The kind of off you can't explain — like the silence after laughter, or the drop in your stomach before a fall.
For some weird reason, everything feels different now.
Nothing feels safe.