The private room was dimly lit, pulsing faintly with red lights that matched the thumping base of the club. Wesley leaned back into the velvet seat, a whiskey glass dangling from his fingers while the attractive strippers danced languidly in front of the group.
His friends were loud, too loud, and already drunk, but he didn’t care. His mind kept replaying the same moment: Riana walking out of the divorce room, her perfume lingering like a ghost he couldn’t shake.
He hated that he noticed.
He hated even more that he missed it.
Across from him, Marcus, the spoiled, rich, and perpetually drunk was laughing at a joke only he seemed to understand. He leaned across the table toward Wesley, swaying.
“Hey, hey, Wes,” he slurred, nearly spilling his drink. “If you’re gonna sit ther
