Birthday Night I

Dante

The club buzzed—no, it throbbed—with music, heat, and bodies swaying like sin had its own rhythm.

REC wasn't just any venue. It was a fortress of fame and desire, a glass-and-metal playground for the elite. Tonight, the main event took place on the second floor—invitation-only. Security was tighter than a vault, the guest list handpicked by me, or rather, the team I barely trusted to breathe without supervision.

Actors. Writers. Influencers. Designers. Billionaire heirs in tailored suits and heiresses in dresses tight enough to cut off circulation. All of them pretty. All of them polished. And yet none of them mattered.

Not a single one.

Because she wasn't here yet.

Twenty-seven felt different. Not just older. Heavier. There was something coiled in my chest, and no amount of champagne or fake congratulations could loosen it.

"Happy birthday to D'Angelo!" the DJ—one of the most expensive in the world, flown in from Barcelona—shouted over the mic. The crowd erupted in a cheer. Bottles were popped. Confetti burst from the ceiling.

People laughed. Toasted. Women kissed my cheek. Men slapped my back like I was some god among men.

And all I could think was: Where the f**k is she?

This bitch better show up.

I didn't blackmail her, threaten her, bait her with Fernando and emotionally manipulate her just to stand here alone while strangers sucked up to me. I didn't drop those photos just to be ignored. I told her to wear red. Or black.

She better come dressed like a warning or like grief.

Because that's what she is to me—something that can ruin or destroy depending on which way she decides to bleed.

A hand brushed my shoulder—female, manicured, bold. "Dante," she purred. I didn't even look.

"Not now," I muttered, waving her off like a stray thought.

I stepped toward the balcony that overlooked the club's lower floor. Glass railings, dim violet lights, pulsing bass vibrating through my chest. I scanned the entrance below.

Still nothing.

Still no her.

My jaw clenched, and I reached into my coat, pulling out a silver flask engraved with the D'Angelo crest. Took a swig. Not because I needed it—but because I hated the way waiting made me feel.

Weak.

Hopeful.

Human.

Fuck that.

I was still half hard from remembering how she looked on her knees, lips swollen, mascara ruined, hands trembling against my thighs. There'd been a moment—right at the end—when she looked up at me, glassy-eyed and ashamed.

And I almost kissed her.

Almost.

But that wasn't what this was about. It never was. This was about control.

About making her crack again.

Because once was an accident. Twice?

That's surrender.

I turned back to the crowd. Men in velvet jackets sipping whiskey older than most of the girls they brought. Women laughing too loud, trying to prove something. The air smelled like power, sweat, and perfume.

It wasn't enough.

None of this was enough without her watching me.

I wanted her to see what she was missing. To see me celebrated, wanted, worshiped. To feel like she was the outsider. The nobody. I wanted her envy, her regret, her jealousy to eat her alive.

And then I'd offer her a way out.

Me.

Only me.

Another person tried to catch my attention—this time a producer from LA with a fake tan and a hunger for relevance. "You should come to Cannes this year, Dante," he said, voice slick with cocaine and desperation. "We're premiering something you'd fucking love."

I nodded like I cared.

Still no Isabella.

I was seconds away from breaking something.

Isabella

It was midnight.

Evangeline and I had just reconciled, surprisingly. Her apology had been raw, trembling at the edges, and somehow… honest. We didn't hug. We didn't cry. We just sat across from each other, silence heavy, then agreed to show up at REC—together.

Not for Dante.

Not for Lorenzo.

But for Fernando.

God, I missed him.

I missed his voice, his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was a star that landed in his lap. But more than anything, I missed the way he touched me. The way his fingers coaxed confessions from my body. The way his tongue didn't ask questions—it just claimed.

I missed his cock too. I won't pretend I didn't.

Tonight, I wanted it all.

And I would get it.

The car Evangeline arranged was black, sleek, and discreet. The windows were tinted enough to keep secrets, which felt fitting. She looked stunning in dark red—devil's wine. I, on the other hand, dressed like vengeance.

Black.

Backless.

Slit to my thigh.

And a red Bottom Louis Vuitton heels so tall they made me feel dangerous.

I kept my face neutral, cold even, as we entered REC. The club pulsed with rich desperation—everyone trying to outshine everyone else. The music pounded like a racing heart. The lights flickered like secrets. And at the top of it all, I felt him before I saw him.

Dante.

Watching me from above like he was some brooding deity.

But this wasn't about him. Not tonight.

My focus was Fernando.

Even if it meant walking straight into the lion's den.

Dante

I was halfway through my second drink, something expensive and pointless, when the doors opened and in walked two troublemakers dressed like temptation and bad decisions.

Her.

And her nosy, sunshine-in-a-bottle cousin.

Evangeline strolled ahead like she owned the damn place, heels clacking like war drums on the marble floor. Isabella followed behind her, looking every bit like sin wrapped in silk. The dress was black, skin-tight, and carved open at the back like an invitation to hell. My hell.

I took a slow sip, hoping the ice would cool me down.

"Happy birthday," Evangeline beamed, waltzing right up to me like we were old friends. We weren't.

I raised a brow. "Thanks… Eve, is it?"

"Yup. Evangeline. Don't forget it."

Right behind her, Isabella stood stiff—arms crossed, lips tight, her expression that kind of awkward that borders on hostile. She stared like she hadn't decided whether to stab me or slap me.

Pretty Eve elbowed her with a grin.

"Say something," she whispered.

Isabella's gaze flicked to mine, sharp as shattered glass. "Happy birthday," she mumbled.

Then she added—definitely added—"dickhead," under her breath.

I read lips. Especially hers. And that one was clear as day.

My smirk betrayed me. She rolled her eyes like she regretted the whole thing.

I chuckled.

That's when Lorenzo showed up, golden boy aura and all, dressed like a page out of some Ivy League magazine ad.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, eyes narrowed on Isabella.

"I invited them," I cut in smoothly, swirling my drink. "You're welcome."

Lorenzo's gaze flicked to Isabella and back to me, brows pulling tight.

"So you're the dickhead who refused to have sex with my Bella here?" I raised a brow at that. "Such a dummy." It was Evangeline talking to Lorenzo.

The thing about Lorenzo and me? We weren't just brothers. We were a cautionary tale.

He was the golden one. The one our father paraded like a prize pony. Gentle, polite, disciplined. Probably still a virgin—I wouldn't bet against it. And if he wasn't, I doubt he did anything but missionary with the lights off.

Me? I was the regret. The sin. The experiment gone wrong.

Even as kids, it was always me pushing the limits. I was the first to party, the first to drink, the first to smoke, the first to jerk off, and yeah… Lorenzo learned that one from me too.

When he hit puberty, he got quiet. Private. Said we needed "boundaries." We stopped doing things together. Stopped talking about things that mattered. That's when the connection faded. By the time I reached my own awakening, it was like we'd never been close at all.

I explored. I tasted the world. He hid.

"You know what?" he snapped suddenly, pointing between us. "You guys are dumb, dumber, and…" his finger landed on Evangeline, "the big dummy."

Then he spun on his heel and stormed off like a soap opera character having a meltdown.

I blinked.

"What the hell was that?" I muttered.

Evangeline didn't even flinch. "You're the biggest, dumbest, most dumb dummy I've ever seen in my entire life!" she yelled after him.

Does that even make sense? No wonder Lorenzo pointed her out as the big dummy.