13- ISLA

Éclipse is the hottest club in the city, a place where power and indulgence intertwine beneath flashing neon lights.

The moment we step inside—through the VIP entrance, of course—my nostrils are assaulted by a mix of smoke, sweat, and something sharp and unpleasant, like cheap cologne mingling with stale alcohol. The bass-heavy music vibrates through the air, a pulsing rhythm that seems to dictate the movement of the crowd below.

From the elevated VIP section, I glance down at the dance floor, where bodies are packed together, moving in chaotic harmony, lost in the beat like they have nowhere else to be. My heels click against the sleek black-tiled floor as we make our way to our reserved area, the dim lighting casting shadows that dance along the plush, moody interior.

Sophia leans in close, her lips brushing my ear as she teases, "You're already frowning, deary. Try to look like you want to be here."

I wince at her words, but say nothing.

Our section is tucked away in a more exclusive part of the VIP lounge—deep blue velvet couches, a sleek marble table, and a perfect view of the club's main floor. The low golden lights above cast an expensive glow over the space, making it feel intimate despite the noise surrounding us.

I place my bag beside me, pushing my hair back as I settle into the couch. A club is the last place one should go after having a quality dinner, but I can't say that out loud now. I'm already here.

A waiter approaches soon after, his smile practiced and smooth as he greets us. "What can I get for you, ladies?"

Sophia doesn't hesitate, practically chirping her order. "A tequila sunrise for me, and for her—" she nods at me, "—a whiskey sour."

I shoot her a look, unimpressed. "I didn't say I wanted a drink."

She waves a hand. "It's a club, Isla. You have to drink."

The waiter lingers, subtly intrigued by Sophia's energy. She flashes him a flirtatious smile, tossing her golden-brown waves over her shoulder, and as expected, he eats it up.

I watch the exchange with mild amusement until Sophia turns to me, her eyes glinting. "You should try it," she says. "Flirting is fun."

I feign a sweet smile. "I'd rather not."

She sighs dramatically but lets it go, pulling me in closer. "Okay, at least smile for a selfie."

I huff but lean in, letting her snap a few pictures.

"Smile wider," she chides.

I give her a flat look. "I can't just smile without a reason."

Sophia rolls her eyes but takes the photos anyway, satisfied despite my lack of enthusiasm. Just as she lowers her phone, a strange sensation prickles at my spine.

I turn slightly to my left.

Two men are watching me.

They're seated a few tables away, drinks in hand, their gazes lingering just a second too long to be casual. One of them is smirking, his posture too relaxed, while the other murmurs something to him, both looking directly at me.

I purse my lips in irritation, shifting my legs and sitting straighter, my expression cooling into something unreadable.

Sophia follows my gaze, then nudges me under the table. "Don't be so obvious," she murmurs, her tone amused.

"I don't care if they see," I mutter.

She just grins. "Maybe they think you're pretty."

"I know I'm pretty. That's not the problem."

Before I can argue further, the waiter returns, placing our drinks down with a polished ease. Sophia claps her hands together softly, delighted, while I pick up my glass with little interest.

We slip into easy conversation, talking about her trip to Rome—again—when movement catches my eye.

A man approaches.

I recognize him immediately—it's the one who had been smirking.

He stops right in front of me, his dark blue shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the faintest hint of a tattoo at his throat. His hair is styled back, his jawline sharp, and though his features are objectively attractive, his presence instantly grates on me.

"Didn't mean to stare," he says, voice smooth but arrogant. "Just couldn't help but notice how out of place you look here."

I lift a brow, my fingers tightening around my glass. "That's fascinating," I deadpan.

His smirk widens. "Would you like to dance?"

"No."

His smile falters for half a second before he recovers. "Oh, come on," he coaxes. "One dance."

I sip my drink, unbothered. "No, thank you."

He chuckles, clearly not used to being turned down. "You don't seem like the type who knows how to have fun."

I set my glass down, my patience thinning. "And you don't seem like the type who knows how to take a hint."

Sophia tenses slightly beside me, but she doesn't interfere. The man, however, refuses to back off. His amusement flickers, replaced with something sharper—something entitled.

"I think you'd enjoy yourself if you gave it a chance."

I exhale through my nose, irritated beyond belief. "And I think you should walk away before I make you."

A flash of something dark crosses his face. Before I can react, his hand clamps around my wrist.

My body moves on instinct.

I rise from my seat in one smooth motion and slap him, the sharp crack of skin against skin slicing through the music. His head jerks to the side, his grip loosening instantly.

My eyes blaze as I glare at him. "Touch me again, and I'll shove that drink down your throat—glass and all."

He seethes, his face darkening, but before he can do anything—

A voice, smooth as silk, cuts through the air.

"Well, well. Where there's a commotion, there's a Moreau."

My breath catches.

I don't need to turn to know who it is.

God. I curse under my breath, already blaming the whiskey sour.

Ciaran Valente strides toward us lazily, his dark shirt unbuttoned just enough to look effortlessly put together. His gaze flicks between me and the man, his sharp features painted in amusement, but there's something underlying—something dangerous.

The man stiffens, recognizing him instantly. His entire demeanor withers under Ciaran's stare, and after a muttered curse, he scurries away, vanishing into the crowd.

I let out a slow exhale, but my pulse thrums with an entirely different kind of irritation now. My jaw tightens as I lift my chin, eyes narrowing at the man standing before me.

I cross my arms, the silk of my dress shifting against my skin. "What are you doing here?"

Even under the dim lighting, Ciaran Valente's features are sharp, carved with effortless arrogance. His whiskey dark eyes hover over me, sweeping from my face to my toes before drifting back up—lingering at my waist for a second too long.

His jaw clenches.

I don't know what displeases him. My dress, perhaps? Or the simple fact that I exist in a space he didn't expect?

The dress—dark, sleek, and unforgiving—clings to my frame with delicate precision. Thin straps rest against my shoulders, leaving my collarbones bare, while the bodice fits snugly, accentuating my curves. A subtle slit teases the length of my leg, just enough to make a statement but not enough to be overt. It's the kind of dress that demands attention without trying.

Of course Ciaran didn't expect me to come in a dress. He just met me earlier today in a jumpsuit. This is different.

He quirks a brow, voice low and edged with amusement. "I wasn't aware you owned this place, Moreau. I can be here whenever I want." His lips curl slightly. "It just so happens that you're here today. Unfortunately."

There he goes again with his insufferable snide remarks.

I cross my arms tighter, the soft fabric of my dress shifting against me. "Unfortunately?" I echo, my tone sharp. "Oh, don't flatter yourself, Valente. I don't give a damn about your whereabouts."

His smirk deepens, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. "That so?"

Before I can snap back, he tilts his head. "Shouldn't you be saying thank you?"

I scoff. "For what?"

His brow lifts, arrogance radiating off of him. "For saving you."

My blood boils. "Saving me?" I let out a sharp laugh, shaking my head. "If you're referring to that douchebag getting slapped by me, then let me be very clear—I did not need your help."

Ciaran takes a step closer, voice lowering just enough to send a shiver down my spine. "If I hadn't stepped in, there would've been a ruckus."

I exhale through my nose, keeping my irritation at ease despite the way my heart rate spikes. "Delusion has its limit, Valente."

Beside me, Sophia snorts but quickly drops it when Ciaran's gaze flickers to her.

Her usual confidence takes over as she stands, flashing him a bright, charming smile. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Sophia."

Ciaran barely spares her a glance before his dark eyes return to me.

Something hot sparks beneath my skin at the weight of his stare, as if he's not just looking at me—but through me.

I lift a brow, my voice cool as ice. "When someone introduces themselves, the polite thing to do is respond in kind."

His smirk sharpens. "I don't do pleasantries."

I want to slap him.

Before I can open my mouth, his eyes darken slightly, the amused flicker fading just a touch. "Be on time for the meeting tomorrow." His tone dips lower. "And no stubbornness."

With that, he turns and walks away.

I watch his retreating form, my hands curling into fists at my sides.

The nerve of this man.

As soon as he's out of sight, I drop back onto the velvet couch with an angered groan, rubbing my temples.

Sophia lets out a whoosh, fanning herself. "Well, that was intense." She turns to me, amusement twinkling in her eyes. "You okay?"

I grunt. "With that man around me? I'm bound to lose my peace."

She laughs, shaking her head. "It can't be that bad."

I shoot her a glare. "Sophia."

She lifts her hands in surrender but still grins, sipping her drink. "Fine, fine. But that—" she motions toward where Ciaran disappeared—"was interesting."

I groan again, reaching for my whiskey sour. I need something stronger.