The private room was a cocoon of crimson light and muffled bass, the kind of space designed for secrets and sins. Riley’s sequined dress caught every flicker from the low-hanging fixture above, throwing fractured sparkles across the velvet walls. She played her part flawlessly—head tilted, lips parted in a practiced half-smile, fingers grazing Montell’s lapel as though she were already his.
Montell drank it in. He was tall, broad-shouldered, the cut of his suit screaming old money layered over new violence. The crimson mask he wore only covered the upper half of his face, leaving his mouth free to curl into that smug, predatory grin that had closed deals and ended lives.
“You’re good at this,” he murmured, backing her slowly toward the couch until the backs of her knees hit the cushion.
