Neon lights flickered outside the club as night deepened.

Stella Laurent stood by the roadside in her high heels, waving at several taxis that ignored her. She turned toward a black sedan that had just started its engine. "Nathaniel, can I hitch a ride? You're heading my way, right?"

Nathaniel Vance rolled down the window and confirmed the address. Stella slid into the backseat, settling beside Jenna Roland.

As the car merged onto the main road, Nathaniel glanced at Jenna through the rearview mirror. "The boss offered to drive you home. Why didn't you take him up on it?"

Jenna kept her eyes on the blur of city lights outside. "Sophia looked ready to skin me alive."

"Damn right!" Stella crossed her legs. "That woman's possessive as hell. If you'd gotten in his car, she'd have made your life miserable tomorrow."

Jenna scoffed. "No point stirring up trouble."

Nathaniel turned the steering wheel. "You know about their... arrangement?"

"Heard rumors." Jenna tapped her fingers against the window frame.

Nathaniel lowered his voice. "Plenty of girls at the club have crushes on the boss, but none dare act on it. Last month, a new girl didn't get the memo. Sophia cornered her in the alley the next day—"

"Seven stitches in her skull." Stella mimed smashing a bottle.

Jenna arched an eyebrow. "That vicious?"

"Girl vanished after that." Stella shrugged. "So yeah, steer clear of those two."

Jenna narrowed her eyes. She wasn't one to back down from conflict, but she hadn't come to the club to get entangled in drama. Money was her only objective.

The car pulled up at Beverly Hills.

Jenna thanked them and stepped out, watching the taillights disappear. She eased the front door open, careful not to wake Milo if he was waiting up.

The living room lay in darkness. She fumbled for the wall switch. The sofa stood empty.

When she pushed her bedroom door open, her breath caught—

Ethan Roscente lay asleep in her bed.

A black suitcase leaned against the nightstand, its zipper half-open to reveal men's dress shirts. Jenna froze, her nails digging into her palms.

Was he actually moving in?

Moonlight at 5:30 AM filtered through the sheer curtains as she mechanically towel-dried her hair, catching her pale reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Clutching a thin blanket, she moved toward the living room couch like a sleepwalker.