The room dissolved into lazy laughter, the kind that came easy when you'd spent too many nights sweating under stage lights together.

Oni sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the wall, a towel draped around his neck, earbuds in. From the outside, he looked absorbed in his phone, scrolling through his playlist with precision. In truth, his gaze slid over the room in quiet observation.

Maddox stood at the full-length mirror like it was his lover, shirt unbuttoned to his navel, six-pack gleaming like it had its own lighting rig. He tilted his chin, adjusted a single curl, and misted himself with cologne for the third time—gold bottle, obviously. The spray arced through the air like a final blessing, catching the warm light.

"Third time. What is he trying to do, fumigate the entire mansion? No one needs that much cologne unless they're trying to knock someone unconscious." Oni's mouth twitched into an almost-smirk at the thought.

His eyes flickered to Dante when he shifted. Dante had claimed the end of the bench like a lounging panther. His arms stretched back behind his head, every carved line of muscle shifting beneath the low lights. He moved like slow jazz—unbothered, indulgent, devastating. Eyes closed, jaw slack, skin still warm from his warmup, he looked like he belonged on a billboard and didn't even care.

Caleb stood and stretched with a lazy roll of his shoulders, his movements unhurried, like he had all night to get ready. His shirt hung open, framing his chest and abs as if it were designed just to tempt, the hem brushing low over the band of his bottoms. Sun-golden skin caught the soft light, the deep lines of his v-cut shadowed and unapologetic. He ran a hand down the center of his torso—slow, almost unaware—before reaching for his cologne and giving himself a single, casual spritz.

"Let's go make someone's night," he said, lazy grin sliding into place.

Oni heard him and nodded, knowing it was the cue—the night had finally begun.

He slid his earbuds out and placed them neatly on the cabinet. He adjusted his clothes, smoothing the fabric over his frame. A smile curled on his lips—not his own, but the one that belonged to the stage. The smile that softened his gaze, made him seem warm, approachable, sweet.

By the time he reached the door, the mask was set — warm enough to draw you in, sweet enough to make you linger, and dangerous enough that you wouldn't realize the trap until it had already sprung.

Three hours had passed since leaving the room.

The Velvet Pool Room at Le Rêve was warm enough for the air to cling to skin, scented faintly of roses, champagne, and treated water. The low ceiling trapped heat over the long, still pool, its deep blue tiles glowing under spotlights that shifted from gold to blue. Marble lions at each end spilled narrow streams into the water, their trickle the only sound between songs.

Velvet lounges lined the walls, some half-hidden behind sheer curtains, occupied by ladies in silk robes, swimsuits and glittering dresses, champagne in hand. Crystal bowls of roses drifted on the water, their scent blending into the bass-heavy track that pulsed softly through the floor.

At the far end, the DJ's voice curled through the air. "Ladies, tonight is a special night! A one on one private lap dance from our very own Sweet Sin, Oni!"

The name drew attention instantly. Heads turned toward the low platform and polished chrome pole. Oni stood there, lit from below so his sharp features cut through the dim. His sheer black shirt clung to his damp torso, the harness beneath outlining his shoulders. Leather pants hugged close as he shifted his weight, boots planted steady.

Somewhere near the center lounges, laughter broke the quiet: "She just got divorced! Let her have the lap dance!" A woman shoved her friend's hand up, sparking cheers and teasing calls.

Oni's lips began to curve into a practiced smile — until his eyes caught hers.

It wasn't shock. It was slower, creeping in like water filling a glass. She looked almost exactly as he remembered though her hair was different but her eyes hadn't changed. Still the same ones that met his across practice rooms years ago.

And they weren't looking at him like the others. No hunger. No calculated interest. Just recognition and knowing.

That was more dangerous.

A small blink reset his expression. He stepped down from the platform, every movement steady and deliberate — part performance, though his pulse refused the rhythm.

Old fragments flickered: her giving snacks at late rehearsals sometimes, her voice light when she encouraged him, her quiet tone when things went bad.

He'd never told her he was leaving. One day he was in the practice room; the next he wasn't. And now, she was here, in a place he'd never imagined.

He stopped at her table, his shadow swallowing most of the candlelight. For a long moment, he said nothing, eyes locked on hers.

He extended his gloved hand, the same motion he'd made for countless clients — but this time, his chest felt tighter than it ever had on stage.

His voice was low, just enough for her to hear over the bass. "Come on...a fresh start deserves a little indulgence, don't you think?"