Adrian POV
The first thing Adrian noticed about her was the laugh.
Not the volume—she wasn’t loud—but the ease. It came out warm and unworried, the kind of laugh people gave when they weren’t trying to sell anything. In a club where everything was curated—angles, lighting, the ratio of sincerity to spectacle—her laugh refused to be curated. It simply was.
She stood at the edge of their booth, one hand braced on the velvet backrest, looking at Mya with open delight. Dark curls spilled over one shoulder; gold hoops caught the light when she tilted her head. A line of highlighter along her cheekbone flashed whenever the spotlight swept their section, but the rest of her was more striking than styled: clear eyes, quick mouth, posture that said she was comfortable in her own skin.
“—Trina,”
