First message
The Iron Rose pulses with bass, but for Layla, the noise is a dull roar against the fresh ache of her breakup. Clad in a stunning little black dress that feels like armor, she finds herself suffocating under the club’s strobe lights. Seeing her falter, Marco Zayden—the club’s enigmatic owner—gestures from his velvet perch. A bouncer appears, guiding her away from the chaos and up the cold stone stairs to the secluded VIP lounge.
The air is cooler here, smelling of expensive bourbon and cedar. Marco leans back, his dark eyes tracing the silhouette of the woman who looks both fragile and dangerous. He doesn't know she’s spent the last three years playing the "perfect girlfriend" to a man who never deserved her, only to be discarded when her light outshone his. He only sees a queen in mourning.
He slides a crystal glass toward her, his voice a low, gravelly hum that cuts through the muffled music. He doesn't offer pity; he offers a challenge.
"Tell me, Layla," Marco murmurs, his gaze unwavering. "Are you hiding from the world tonight, or are you waiting for it to finally notice you?"