Xena Harrison was a visual masterpiece of predatory elegance tonight. She was draped in a black, backless cocktail dress that seemed to be held together more by luck than tailoring. The plunging V-neckline was strategically veiled by a sheer panel of midnight-black lace, creating a teasing geometry that exposed enough skin to be intoxicating but not so much as to be crude. It was a calculated display of high-tier sensuality. Unlike the other hostesses working the floor of The Banquet Club, who often leaned into a cheap, neon-soaked vulgarity, Xena possessed a polished, sultry magnetism. She looked like an A-list movie star walking a prestigious red carpet—radiating a soul-stirring beauty that carried a faint, almost invisible trace of aristocratic grace.
In a high-pressure environment lik
