Ima runs the club without ever seeming to do so. She doesn't raise her voice, doesn't give orders outright, doesn't impose herself through fear. But she knows exactly where to stand, what look to give, and when to step in. The atmosphere shifts according to her, like music when someone imperceptibly turns a knob. The girls feel it. The clients feel it. Even the men who think they only respond to force learn quickly to respect her territory.
For me, Ima has been more than a good dancer. She was the first to teach me how to survive here without losing myself completely. How to look without inviting. How to smile without promising. How to say no without seeming weak. She explained the club's unwritten rules to me with a patience that's hard to find in a place like this, and more than anything, she taught me when to ask for help. That has saved my skin more times than I can count.
I'm at the bar, polishing glasses that are already clean, when I feel the shift. It isn't a sound, it isn't a clear movement. It's a presence settling into the air, making my shoulders tense without my consent. I lift my eyes instinctively.
I see him.
Duca stands in the dark side of the bar, in a corner where the light never quite reaches. He should be invisible. He isn't. His eyes gleam, cold and alert, and the shock of recognition hits me straight in the chest. My body reacts before my mind does. My heart beats too fast. My fingers go slightly numb.
He looks even more dangerous than I remember. He's wearing a shirt open at the collar, revealing black, precise tattoos, drawn with a confidence that speaks of final choices. On his wrist, an expensive watch. On his fingers, discreet jewelry—impossible to ignore. Everything about him speaks of control, money, and the absence of fear.
My first question isn't what he's doing here.
It's how he found me.
When he approaches the bar, I feel my stomach tighten, as if the air has suddenly grown denser just for me. He stops at a calculated distance—close enough for me to hear him breathing, far enough to seem polite.
"I came to check if you're okay," he says, in a low, even voice, as if concern were something natural between us.
I smile before I can decide whether I should or not. A bar smile—practiced, safe—but this time not entirely false.
"I'm fine," I tell him. "And… thank you. For saving me."
I pour him a shot without asking what he wants and set it in front of him.
"On me," I add.
His scent reaches me before I can avoid it. Warm, expensive, a mix of leather, good alcohol, and something hard to define—something that speaks of power and certainty. I realize I'm too close, that I didn't step back when I should have. His warmth pulls at me without my wanting it.
His scent reaches me before I can avoid it. Warm, expensive, a mix of leather, good alcohol, and something hard to define—something that speaks of power and certainty. I realize I'm too close, that I didn't step back when I should have. His warmth pulls me toward him against my will.
"I didn't have a choice," he says, his gaze never leaving me, as if he wanted to see what I would understand from that.
"You always have a choice," I answer quietly. "It's just that some choices cost more than others."
The corner of his mouth shifts almost imperceptibly, as if my reply has pleasantly surprised him.
"And still," I go on, "you chose to step in."
I smile at him again—a small, controlled smile, slightly humble, the kind I've learned is safest in a world where gratitude must be visible, but never too much.
"I appreciate it," I say. "More than I should."
For a moment we remain like that, suspended in a space too narrow for two people from such different worlds. I feel his warmth, his scent, the weight of his presence that doesn't touch me, yet presses in on me. The tension between us asks for nothing outright, and that's exactly why it promises everything.
For a fraction of a second, I allow myself to forget where I am. Who I am. What I know.
Then Elena's image hits me suddenly—clear and cold: our mornings, her laughter, the promise made without witnesses. The reason I'm not allowed to confuse attraction with safety.
I take a step back before closeness turns into a mistake and turn back to the bar as if nothing had happened. I keep my hands busy, smile at other customers, pour drinks, listen to half-stories I forget immediately. Distance is a discipline, and I practice it well. Time passes, the music changes, and he doesn't leave.
When I return to him, I do so with the same ease I would with any other client, only now I know what he drinks. I pour the expensive cognac, place it on the bar with care, and step away without a word. He savors it slowly, almost ritualistically, and his gaze follows me from the shadows for hours. We don't speak again. There's no need.
It's like a silent dance, held at a distance. My steps behind the bar from one client to another, the way I turn my head, the moment I know he's watching me without looking for him. Our bodies seek each other without touching, feel each other from afar, recognize one another. The attraction moves between us like an invisible line neither of us wants to break—and neither wants to cross. I know what it is. He knows it too. And that's exactly why we keep dancing.
I know exactly when his glass runs empty, because I've been watching him for hours without meaning to, without setting out to do so, attentive to every small movement, every pause between sips. I go to refill it without a word, as if the gesture had been decided in advance, as if we had both known it was coming. When I try to pull away, his hand reaches out and closes around mine—simple, certain—and the warmth of his palm hits me full force. It's large, warm, steady, and for a second it feels like everything I've ever lacked.
The pleasure is so intense I almost sway.
"I want to see you again," he says in a low, rough voice meant only for my ears.
His blue eyes glint, heavy with alcohol and with something more dangerous than desire. With his thumb, he strokes the skin of my palm, and in that moment I have the absurd sensation that I could follow him to the ends of the earth and back without asking a single question.
"I can't," I say, even though everything inside me is screaming yes. I give a small shake, as if I could drive the feeling away with a simple gesture, and my voice settles into a colder, more distant, more professional register. "I don't get involved with clients. It's one of the few rules I don't allow myself to break."
His eyebrow lifts slowly, curious rather than offended.
"And I'm a client?" he asks, with a calm, almost genuine curiosity.
"Here, you are," I answer. "Only here. That's all."
He takes out the money and places it on the bar carefully, without ostentation, like a well-considered offer rather than a challenge.
"No," I say, and push the money back. "I want the drink to be on me," I add softly, as a way of thanking him for getting me out of a situation that could have turned ugly. For a second, I actually believe he'll understand.
Instead, he gives a short, almost indulgent laugh and places another stack of bills on the bar—far more than any tab, any symbolic gesture. The money stays there, heavy, silent, like a promise I never asked for.
I don't dare touch it. Not because I don't need it, but because I instinctively know that the moment I accept it, I'd be accepting other things I'm not ready for yet.
His gaze sharpens—alert, alive—and before I can say anything else, his hand closes around mine. Not roughly, not aggressively, but firmly enough to remind me exactly where I am and how thin the line beneath my feet really is.
"Duca," a calm voice says from the side.
Cato is already beside us—solid, present, impossible to ignore.
I pull my hand back and take a deep breath, trying to gather the scattered pieces of control inside myself.
"Please leave," I say to Duca, without hostility, just with bare truth. "If you stay, things will get complicated. And Asan will find out."
For a fraction of a second, his gaze darkens. Then he lets go of me.
He leaves without hurry, as if none of it had touched him.
I'm left with my skin burning and a strange hollow in my stomach. His presence ignited me. His absence leaves me inexplicably empty.
Instinctively, I lift my eyes toward the security cameras. If Asan saw—
Later, when I'm closing the bar, I notice the money.
He left it.
I stare at it for a long time, without touching it.
Why did Duca really come here?