Page 9

CHAPTER 9

KAI

T he world around me blurs together in flashing lights and laughter.

The bass thrums beneath my feet, a constant, steady pulse. The liquor is smooth, the attention is effortless, and the women? They come and go in an easy, predictable rhythm.

One leans in, whispering something against my ear. Her perfume is strong, her voice is sweet, practiced. I don’t register a single word she says.

Doesn’t matter. I already know the script.

It’s a game I’ve long since mastered. Playful smirks. Brushed fingers. The push-pull of waiting for me to make the move they want.

It’s a distraction. A habit.

A routine that feels emptier every time I go through the motions.

At least it keeps me from thinking too much about what’s going on back home.

At least it’s easy. Or at least, it was.

Because then something shifts.

I barely register the woman against me anymore. My grin remains in place, but my focus has already left the conversation.

A presence at the bar catches my attention.

I don’t know her name yet. But I know immediately—she’s not like the rest of them.

She’s with a group of women, but she’s not clawing for attention. She’s laughing, but it’s not that saccharine, flirty kind I hear every night in places like this.

It’s real. Effortless.

The kind of laugh that lights up her whole face.

She’s wearing a matching crop top and skirt, nothing particularly scandalous, yet I can’t stop looking.

And then there’s the hair. Bright. Unexpected. A little chaotic. It should clash, but somehow, it fits her perfectly.

I tilt my head slightly, studying her. She’s confident without trying. Not performing. Not seeking approval.

She’s not trying to be seen.

Which, ironically, makes it impossible to look away.

She leans in to talk to one of her friends, completely unaware of how she moves. There’s a natural grace to her, a sharp control in every motion.

An athlete.

Her stance isn’t delicate—it’s grounded. Balanced. Unshakable.

The other women in this club? Most of them want to be noticed. Want to be desired.

Her? She isn’t even playing the game.

I wait.

Most women have looked at me by now. It’s a pattern. A rhythm. A dance I know too well.

But her? Not once. Not even that subtle flick of the eyes most women do when they’re pretending not to look.

I give it a few seconds.

A full minute.

Still nothing.

A slow, amused smirk tugs at my lips.

Interesting.

It’s not just that she hasn’t looked. It’s that she hasn’t once given off the energy of someone trying not to look.

Most women who pretend not to notice me are still hyper-aware of my presence. They’ll angle their shoulders just right. They’ll play with their hair, shift their stance, wait for me to notice them first. They want me to chase. It’s part of the game.

But this woman?

She genuinely doesn’t give a shit that I’m here.

And that is a first.

I watch as she takes a sip of her drink, still fully engaged in her group’s conversation.

I wonder what her voice sounds like.

I wonder if her laugh always comes that easily.

I wonder if she’s already taken?

Not interested in men?

Genuinely unaware of who I am?

The last possibility makes something slowly unfurl in my chest.

No way.

That’s impossible.

She has to know.

Right?

I’m used to a very particular dynamic.

Women who seek me out.

Women who wait for me to make the first move.

Women who play the push-pull game but ultimately give in.

This?

This is new.

This is different.

This is intriguing.

I don’t chase.

I don’t need to.

But something about her makes me want to test the waters.

My attention shifts completely. The rest of the club fades.

The woman beside me nudges me, trying to regain my focus. “What are you looking at?”

I grin lazily, leaning back, stretching like I have all the time in the world. “Nothing.”

My eyes flick back to her for a few more beats, something sharp and knowing in my gaze.

I don’t have to call attention to myself.

I don’t have to do anything at all.

Because sooner or later?

She’s going to look.

And when she does?

I’ll be ready.