Savannah

The hostess led us past soundproofed walls and heavy curtains until we stopped in front of Room 6. Roman’s arm was around my waist, his grip so tight I could feel the rhythmic pulse of his anger.

The room was a masterpiece of decadence—black velvet walls, gold trim, and crystal lights that dripped like frozen rain. It was a place designed for those with expensive tastes and hidden desires.

Dean and Chloe settled onto a plush sofa, their eyes fixed on the elevated stage in the center of the room.

"We're ready for your performance, Miss," the hostess said.

Roman froze. "What?"

Chloe stepped forward, looking like the cat who’d caught the canary. "A little surprise for my bridal shower, Sav. Since you used to be such a talented dancer, I thought you’d want to show off for your fiancé. And mine."

I saw the trap immediately. She wanted to humiliate me, to make me feel small and exposed. She thought the memory of the stage would break me. But she forgot one thing: I don’t break. I ignite.

I glanced at Roman. His jaw was flexed, a storm brewing in his dark eyes.

"Where can I change?" I asked the hostess, my voice a low, dangerous calm.

"Savannah..." Roman warned.

I ignored him, locking eyes with my sister. Her smugness faltered for a fraction of a second. "Oh, I'll give you a show, Chloe. One you’ll never forget."

The outfit provided was a daring ensemble of red lace and silk—bold, fierce, and undeniable. When I stepped out onto the stage, the room fell into a deafening silence.

The music started—a slow, sultry rhythm with a heavy bass that vibrated through the floorboards. I didn't look at Dean. I didn't look at Chloe. I kept my eyes on Roman.

I moved with a fluid, practiced grace. Every step, every arch of my back was a calculated strike against Chloe’s expectations. I used the chair on stage not as a prop, but as a throne. I moved like I wasn't made of bone, but of smoke and fire.

Roman wasn't breathing. He sat with his legs spread, hands gripping his knees, his eyes turning a shade of black that made my skin tingle. Dean was leaning forward, his earlier smugness replaced by a raw, unshielded longing that made Chloe’s face twist in rage.

I executed a series of movements that were as much an athletic feat as they were a dance—a slow, controlled split, a serpentine roll that brought me to the edge of the stage, inches from where they sat.

Then, I focused entirely on Roman. I rose to my feet, my gaze never leaving his. "I need a volunteer," I purred.

Dean started to stand, but I didn't even blink in his direction. "Roman."

Roman stood slowly, like a lion deciding it was time to join the hunt. He followed me to the center of the stage and sat in the chair. I moved around him, a whisper of red lace against his dark suit. I leaned in close, my breath ghosting against his ear. "Behave," I whispered.

He didn't move a muscle, but his hands found my waist, his grip firm and possessive. The world outside the spotlight vanished. There was no Chloe, no Dean, no fake engagement. There was only the heat radiating between us and the heavy, intoxicating rhythm of the music.

I leaned back, my hands tangled in his hair, as he looked up at me with a reverence that felt dangerously real. When the music finally faded into a low hum, his hands stayed on my thighs, and for a moment, neither of us could move.

"Right," Roman murmured, his voice a low vibration I felt in my soul. "Just a performance."

But as we stared at each other in the dim light, the lie felt thinner than ever before.