The thumping bass vibrated through Rita Jones's chest, mingling with the sweet burn of tequila. Around her, the soft glow of disco balls danced across the faces of her closest friends, Glenda, Amelia, and Evelyn, their laughter a comforting melody in the Skybar VIP lounge. This was their weekly ritual—a brief escape from the high-stakes world of their careers.

“Rita, I saw someone that looked like Eric in town today,” Glenda’s voice cut through the revelry, her words slurring slightly as she chased a tequila shot with a lemon. Rita, ever the workaholic, barely looked up from her iPhone, still perusing trading platforms. “It can’t be him, he left for City Z on a business trip last week,” she dismissed, a flicker of irritation crossing her face.

Amelia, ever the protective one, snatched Rita’s phone. “No, Rita, you always do this! We’re supposed to be having girl time.” Evelyn nodded in agreement. But Glenda's casual remark had planted a tiny, insidious seed of doubt in Rita’s mind, one she quickly tried to bury under a fresh wave of carefree dancing. A strange chill ran down her spine, a fleeting sensation of being watched, but she dismissed it as the alcohol taking hold.

Meanwhile, in a dimly lit corner of the same VIP section, a tall, imposing figure with jet-black hair watched Rita’s uninhibited movements on the dance floor. His eyes, sharp and intense, held a complex mix of longing and something darker. A silent, potent promise formed on his lips: 'I’m back, Rita.'