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Chapter 2 - Chapter 2: Dinner, Dancing, Dangerous Drinks

The unease gnawed at me as I dove into more research. Something didn't sit right. People lied all the time—that was the one truth I'd learned. Graham had seemed so earnest, his concern palpable, but I couldn't ignore the possibility of a facade. I'd seen it before, experienced it firsthand. My ex-husband had been a master of appearances, a lesson burned so deeply into my psyche that it surfaced in everything I did. Trust was a luxury I couldn't afford.

Hours later, I stood outside the apartment door, key in hand. The hall was quiet except for the soft creak of floorboards beneath my feet. I felt like someone was watching me, but I was alone. You need to be buzzed in or need a key to get into the building. I slid the key into the lock and twisted it, pushing the door open.

As I stepped inside, the living room was cloaked in shadows, with only a faint glow of city light seeping through the blinds. Layla and Marcus were nowhere to be seen, but the unmistakable sounds of laughter and moans of pleasure drifted from their bedroom. My hand hesitated near the doorframe, but then I heard Layla's voice gasping for more and my fingers recoiled as if burned by desire.

A grin tugged at my lips, and I shook my head, a small laugh escaping before I moved toward my own room. The door clicked softly behind me as I stepped inside.

The quiet settled in thickly, pressing against my skin. My room felt cavernous, every corner heavy with the weight of solitude. Normally, I cherished being alone—it was a space where I could breathe, think, and just be. But tonight, it felt different. The emptiness loomed, wrapping itself around me like an unwelcome guest.

I lingered near the bed, my eyes drifting over the scattered books and papers. The silence wasn't just outside—it was in me, echoing with thoughts I didn't want to entertain. 

I showed again getting the days off of me. Tybalt meowed at me for attention. I stopped and cuddled with the little prince. I dried and curled my hair. I went through my closet looking for a dress that would both work for dinner and for dancing. I rolled my eyes as I thought about going out dancing. Layla knows this, but it seems like she might be up to something with how much she insisted. Plus, she never gets off at the hospital, so it was the least I could do. 

I leaned in close to the mirror, the dim light casting shadows over my face as I carefully traced a deep red across my lips. The color popped against my skin, bold and unapologetic. My brush dipped into the palette again, the dark tones smudging into the corners of my eyes to create the perfect smokey effect. My hand trembled slightly; it had been a long time since I'd done this.

As I worked, memories surfaced like old photographs, faded but vivid enough to sting. I used to wear makeup every day, a ritual of confidence and self-expression. But Beau—his voice echoed in my mind—had sneered at the effort, calling me a clown. Over time, his words had chipped away at my resolve until I stopped entirely. Tonight, though, I was reclaiming it, piece by piece.

I leaned back, assessing my work. The scar on my cheek caught the light, a pale, silvery line etched into my skin. My eyes drifted to my hands resting on the edge of the sink. Thin scars criss crossed them like a map of forgotten battles, faint reminders of pain I could never forget, not to mention the scar on my head from being shot. My hands and arms were the only parts of me that really bothered me. They were lined like a road map. 

The braces dug into my wrists, stiff and unrelenting. Without them, my grip weakened, fingers trembling under the strain of simple tasks. They were a constant presence, a reminder I could never shake.

Even now, the phantom sound echoed in my head—the sickening rip of flesh and tendon as the blade sliced through both hands. I had thrown them up in defense, a futile shield against the attack. The memory clung to me, as sharp as the pain that once burned through my nerves, as real as the braces that now held me together.

Still, the woman staring back at me wasn't the same one Beau had tried to diminish. Her lips curled into a small, defiant smile. The scars were there, yes—but so was the strength that had carried her here.

I slid into the silver gown, the fabric cool and smooth against my skin. It caught the light as I moved, shimmering like liquid metal. Standing before the mirror, I swept my long bangs aside, revealing the faint ridge of the scar on my forehead—a reminder of a bullet that never fully left me. They don't tell you that sometimes, fragments stay buried, a silent passenger you carry for life.

The gown dipped low, revealing the jagged scars that marred my skin—pale, silvery lines criss crossing my arms and shoulders, a map of old wars fought. Twenty-eight in all. Eight stab wounds, ten defensive slashes, and the one from the bullet that nearly took me out. My hand, though, was the worst. The knife had gone clean through. I ran a fingertip along a scar near my collarbone, feeling the uneven texture, a sharp contrast to the smooth, delicate fabric that draped over me.

Despite their presence, I felt no shame. These marks were mine, a testament to survival, not a source of embarrassment. The dress, hugging every curve with precision, was an ode to the glamour of Rita Hayworth. Its opulence and dramatic cut radiated the same timeless allure she embodied. For a moment, I could almost hear the whisper of a bygone era, where boldness and beauty coexisted unapologetically.

I draped a faux fur shawl over my shoulders, adjusting it to conceal just enough while letting the cocktail dress's sparkle shine through. The shawl provided a soft cover, allowing the blue dress to shimmer and the scar to blend into my ensemble rather than dominate it.

As I finished with my hair and set the shawl in place, I glanced at my reflection. The transformation was striking. The vintage elegance of the outfit made me feel like I was stepping into a classic film. I caught a glimpse of the confident, glamorous figure in the mirror and felt a surge of unexpected beauty and poise. Embracing the allure of Rita Hayworth, I was more than just myself—I was a vision of old Hollywood, radiant and poised, with my scar seamlessly woven into the story of my strength and grace.

I walked into the living room, where Marcus was striking a pose in a pinstripe suit, his mustache meticulously drawn on with eyeliner. Layla stood center stage in a sparkling pink dress and a flowing blonde wig, fake diamonds shimmering against her neck.

I walked into the living room, where Marcus was striking a pose in a pinstripe suit, his mustache meticulously drawn on with eyeliner. Layla stood center stage in a sparkling pink dress and a flowing blonde wig, fake diamonds shimmering against her neck.

Layla's smile widened, her excitement lighting up the room. "Madonna vibes, right? Diamonds are a girl's best friend!" she proclaimed, twirling with exaggerated flair. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and laughter bubbled out of me before I could stop it.

Marcus leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching us with mild amusement. "You two are already hitting the drinks, or is this just regular chaos?" he quipped, his raised eyebrow adding to the humor of the moment.

Layla didn't miss a beat, grabbing my arm with one hand and Marcus's with the other. "Save your sarcasm for later, Marcus. Let's go! The night is young, and I want every detail about your dinner later," she teased, dragging us toward the door.

Marcus grumbled something under his breath, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs. "Ronny's waiting, isn't he?" he muttered.

"Who's Ronny meeting?" I asked, curiosity piqued.

"No one important," Layla shot back with a wink, her tone suggesting otherwise. Before I could press further, she had already whisked Marcus out of the apartment, leaving me standing there with half-formed questions.

With a sigh, I locked the door and made my way to the curb to hail a cab. The driver greeted me with a friendly smile, immediately launching into a chat about the unseasonably warm weather. I responded politely, but my attention was glued to the passing streets. My eyes flicked between landmarks, ensuring we were heading in the right direction. Paranoia had a way of keeping you sharp—and safe.

When we finally pulled up to the restaurant, I paid the fare and stepped out, adjusting my dress. The slightly overdressed feeling gnawed at me, but it was too late to care now. The warm glow of the restaurant spilled onto the street, and through the window, I spotted Evan waving me over from a table.

He stood as I approached, his towering frame wrapped in an inviting smile. "Hey," he greeted, pulling me into a hug. The embrace was firm and unpretentious, like a bear wrapping its arms around a cub. Evan radiated warmth, but his blue eyes betrayed a flicker of worry.

I pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze for a moment before sliding into the seat opposite him. The menu felt cool in my hands as I flipped it open, more for something to do than a real desire to browse the options.

"Thanks for coming," Evan said, his voice soft but steady, though there was a hint of hesitation, like he was carefully choosing his words.

"Of course." I returned his gaze, offering a small smile. But it didn't reach my eyes—I could feel the weight of something unsaid hanging thickly between us.

Evan cleared his throat, his hand running nervously along the edge of the menu. "You look…" He hesitated, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "Amazing."

My cheeks flushed at his unexpected compliment, and I glanced down, fiddling with the edge of my napkin. "Thanks," I mumbled, the word sounding awkward even to my own ears. "I am going out with Layla and Marcus after."

The silence stretched uncomfortably until the waiter approached, pen poised and ready. His polite smile faltered slightly as he glanced between us, clearly sensing the undercurrent of tension at the table.

Evan ordered first, his voice steadier now, but his eyes kept darting toward me as if gauging my reaction to his every move. When it was my turn, I stumbled over my choice, feeling the waiter's polite but swift efficiency nudging us along.

The moment the waiter walked away, the air seemed heavier, like a string pulled taut and ready to snap. Evan leaned back slightly, his hands clasped on the table, but his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his knuckles.

I looked up, meeting his eyes again. They held the same familiar warmth I'd always known, but tonight, something was different—an intensity, a vulnerability he wasn't used to showing. It made my chest tighten.

Evan hesitated, his fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the table. His gaze flicked to me, then away, as though he were searching for the right words. "Yes and no," he finally said, his voice low and uncertain.

I attempted a weak joke, my lips curving into a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "That's helpful."

But Evan didn't laugh. Instead, he inhaled deeply, the weight of his breath heavy in the air between us. "There was a sighting of Beau in the area," he said, each word carefully measured. "Your old house was broken into. The new family living there reported a man fitting Beau's description."

It felt as though the air had been sucked from the room. My body went cold, and I froze, staring at him. My fingers gripped the edge of the table so tightly my knuckles turned white.

Evan's expression softened, his brows knitting together in concern. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice gentle but filled with urgency.

I tried to respond, but no words came. My thoughts churned in a chaotic swirl. Beau. Here. After all this time.

For years, I had told myself he was gone—fled the state, maybe even the country. It was the only way I'd been able to move on, to rebuild something resembling a normal life. Now, those fragile walls I'd constructed around myself felt like they were crumbling, one terrifying piece at a time.

The restaurant's noise seemed distant, muted, as if I were hearing it through water. My heart hammered in my chest, its frantic rhythm loud in my ears.

Evan leaned forward slightly, his hand resting on the table, inches from mine. "We'll figure this out," he said firmly, his tone resolute.

I nodded weakly, though my mind remained in turmoil. Beau was close, closer than I'd ever dared to imagine. And with him came a storm I wasn't sure I was ready to face.

The waiter came and dropped off my food and promptly left again. I played with the food on my plate, not hungry anymore. Evan reached across and took my hand. 

"This is good news. This will be the best chance at catching him. Have you heard anything from him?" He asked

My heart raced as I scrolled through my call log, landing on the unknown number that had called me earlier. My finger hovered over it, trembling with fear and anger. Beside me, Evan's concerned gaze only added to the overwhelming sense of dread that consumed me.

"Let me see your phone. That could be dangerous," he warned, his lips pursing in worry. "We can't take chances."

I put my passcode in and handed him my phone. He looked at it for a few minutes, poked a few buttons, and gave it back. I felt a surge of frustration boiling within me - not towards Evan, but at the faceless stalker who had invaded my life with their constant calls. The thought of having to hide and change my entire routine for weeks on end was suffocating.

"I can't live in fear like this," I argued, my voice rising in desperation. But Evan's expression remained calm and rational.

"I know," he replied evenly. "But we have to prioritize your safety above all else."

"No!" I stood up abruptly, unable to contain my emotions any longer. Evan's eyes widened in surprise.

"Please, just sit down," he pleaded, gesturing towards the chair with a worried frown. "Let's figure this out together."

But I couldn't bear to listen anymore. The idea of living in constant fear, always looking over my shoulder, was too much to handle.

"No," I stubbornly crossed my arms and remained standing, despite Evan's attempts to reason with me. With a resigned sigh, he fell silent for a moment before softly saying,

"Just remember that your safety is our top priority." Though I wanted to argue back, the weight of his words silenced me as I sat back down defeated and overwhelmed. "He tried to kill you."

I clutched my hands together, my knuckles turning white as I recalled the traumatic event. "Every time I close my eyes, I see his face hovering above mine," I confessed, my voice trembling. "I feel every stab in my dreams." My friend nodded sympathetically, and I added with a small sigh, "If it wasn't for my medication, I'd still wake up screaming."

Evan dragged a hand over his face, his fingers pressing into his temples as if trying to squeeze out the frustration. His shoulders sagged under the weight of something unspoken, but I could feel it radiating off him in waves.

Meanwhile, my own frustration simmered just beneath the surface, a slow-burning heat. I folded my arms tightly across my chest, my nails digging into my skin. I was angry—angry at the situation, at him, though I knew deep down it wasn't his fault. Still, the constant interference in my life felt like a suffocating noose tightening around me.

"I get it," he said, his voice quieter now, almost cautious. "Just… be careful, okay? I worry about you." He paused, his gaze searching mine, then added, "Maybe rethink going out tonight. Maybe take a break from cases for a couple of weeks."

My jaw clenched, and before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out. "No. I just took a new case." My voice was sharper than I intended, cutting through the tension between us like a blade.

Evan flinched slightly, his hand dropping back to his lap. But instead of pushing back, he nodded, his expression softening. "Okay," he said. "Well… can I help? With anything? Maybe I can help you finish it quickly."

His offer caught me off guard. For a moment, I just stared at him, his earnestness slowly chipping away at my irritation. As much as I hated to admit it, he could be useful—maybe even more than useful.

After a beat of silence, I nodded, my arms loosening their grip on my torso. "Yeah," I said, my voice quieter now. "Yeah, maybe you can."

"You know I will do anything I can for you." He said and took my hand again. I pulled away and reached down into my bag for a pen and paper.

"I need all the information you can give me on Benjamin Stover and Wendy Lancaster." I said. "He has been reported missing, but apparently there was some bad blood between him and his ex-girlfriend. There should be a record of it. Can you email me as much of the report as possible." 

I write the name on a piece of paper. I slid it to him. He looked at it, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

"I can try." He said taking a bite of his food. 

I pushed my food around. I wasn't hungry anymore. Evan talked a bit more about this and that. It was mostly the same old song. Beau was seen, I need to stop working, he bothers me for a while, and then disappears again. I am just so tired. 

My phone buzzed, the vibration skittering across the table like a small alarm. I glanced down: Layla. Her message was short and to the point.

Layla:On my way to Club Chameleon. Should I meet you outside or in?

I thumbed a quick response—Outside. When I looked up, Evan's steady gaze was locked on me. His fork hovered mid-air, untouched food still on his plate.

"I have to go," I said, pushing back my chair.

Reaching for my purse, I pulled out enough cash to cover my part of the bill, but Evan raised a hand, stopping me.

"Don't bother," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "You didn't eat a thing. Keep your money."

I hesitated, feeling the sting of his concern. "Evan, I—"

"Just tell me where you're going," he interrupted, his brow creased with worry.

"No," I shot back, sharper than I intended. The defiance in my voice felt juvenile, and guilt pricked at me. "I don't need a babysitter," I added, softer now. "I'll text or call if I need anything. I promise."

His lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. He didn't deserve my attitude, and I knew it. Turning on my heel, I left him sitting there alone, a half-eaten meal and unspoken words lingering between us.

Outside, I flagged down a cab and climbed in. The city lights streaked by in blurred flashes as we made our way to the club. I stared out the window, the hum of the cab's engine filling the silence.

Another buzz from my phone pulled me back. I glanced at the screen and froze.

Unknown:Blue suits you. But I think you'd look even better in red.

My pulse quickened. I scanned the cab's rearview mirror, my reflection pale against the darkness outside. My braced hands made a bending sound as I tightened my hand around the phone as unease settled in. Red was Beau's favorite color.

The words echoed in my mind like a drumbeat, steady and grounding. I am the storm, not the victim. My jaw tightened, and I squared my shoulders, letting the phrase flow through me like a battle cry. Each repetition felt like armor being fitted into place, a shield against the chaos threatening to unravel me. I am the storm. My fingers curled into fists, my pulse steadying. Not the victim. Never the victim.

I took a deep breath as the car pulled up to the club and I saw Layla and Marcus standing with some unknown man. I knew it. I got out of the car and Layla ran up and threw her arms around my neck.

Layla leaned in close, her voice barely audible over the thrum of the cab engine. "Don't be mad. Ronny's new in town, and he's friends with Marcus's sister. He seems really nice."

I pressed my tongue against the back of my teeth—a reflex I'd picked up to hold back words I might regret. The taste of restraint lingered as I considered my response.

"It's fine," I said at last, my tone flat. "But after tonight, no more blind dates."

Layla exhaled in relief and gave me a quick squeeze before pulling back. As we stepped out of the cab, she waved Ronny over. He offered a friendly smile, his hand outstretched in greeting. I took it reluctantly, nodding as Layla introduced him.

Inside the club, the bass pounded through my chest, the lights flashing in dizzying colors. We made our way through the crowd, and my eyes locked onto an empty booth. I claimed it without hesitation, my feet already aching from the heels I'd chosen.

Sliding into the booth, I shot a glance at my shoes, muttering to myself. My dad's old theory popped into my head. "Heels were invented to stop women from protesting," he'd once said, claiming they were designed to keep us from marching. At the time, I'd rolled my eyes, but now, teetering on these stilts, I wondered if he had a point. He would never let me wear them.

Ronny took the seat beside me, leaning in to be heard over the music. "So, you're Layla's friend?"

I nodded. "That's me. And you're... Marcus's sister's friend?"

He chuckled, the sound light but not unpleasant. "Guilty as charged. I'm also a photographer—freelance mostly, but I work with a few magazines."

Ronny seemed pleasant enough, but my energy for polite conversation had long since drained. I nodded along, offering vague responses, while my gaze wandered to the neon-lit bottles lined up behind the bar. Layla disappeared into the crowd, the music swallowing her whole as she headed for the dance floor.

Ronny returned with two drinks, placing one in front of me. The liquid glowed an unnatural shade of green, like it had been plucked from a sci-fi set. I hesitated before taking a sip, the cloying sweetness instantly overwhelming. Grimacing, I tipped the rest back in one go, hoping to get it over with. Ronny grinned and stood, gesturing toward the bar.

I waved him off. "I'm good, thanks."

As he vanished into the sea of people, I slouched into the booth, the pounding bass thumping in my chest. The room seemed to pulse with the rhythm, and I let myself sink into the noise, letting it drown out the rest of the world.

The sharp edge of a voice cut through the din, startling me. My head snapped up, and my breath hitched as my eyes landed on a familiar chiseled jawline. Graham.

"Nice to see where my money's going," he said, sliding into the booth across from me with a practiced ease. His lips curved into a slim, knowing smile.

I straightened, the tension in my shoulders rising. "My personal time is my personal time," I replied coolly, folding my arms over my chest. "I don't owe you an explanation. I deserve down time just as much as anyone else." 

His laughter was a deep, seductive rumble that cut through the pulsing beat of the music. "You have a point." Graham said, his face a stoic mask hiding his true thoughts. "But you're an alluring investment." His eyes roamed freely over my revealing outfit.

"What are you doing here anyway?" I shot at him hotly. I don't know why I felt like this around him. He doesn't get under my skin. No one does. Butterflies were fluttering in my stomach.

A flush crept up my neck, coloring my cheeks as Graham's penetrating gaze held mine. It felt like he could see straight into my soul. My heart raced and I shifted in my seat, crossing my legs tightly as Ronny returned to interrupt us.

Graham leaned back, his hand casually gesturing toward the bustling bar. "But I think you forgot this is my brother's place," he said, his tone smooth but laced with something that felt like a challenge. "I come here every Friday to make sure everything runs smoothly until he's back. It's exhausting."

I caught the faintest smirk on his lips as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the edge of the table.

I rolled my eyes, biting back a retort. He had mentioned that detail before, but his delivery now felt smug, as though he enjoyed reminding me.

"Oh, yes. That is correct," I replied, forcing my tone to stay neutral.

"Not too detail-oriented, are we?" he teased, a sly grin spreading across his face.

The words hit like a spark to dry tinder. Heat rose in my chest, spreading rapidly as irritation turned into anger. The chair scraped loudly against the floor as I stood abruptly, my pulse pounding in my ears.

"Excuse me," I snapped, my voice tight but sharp. "You have no right to judge me. I am very detail-oriented. If you don't believe me, feel free to take your business—"

Before I could finish, Graham's hand darted out. He grabbed the white napkin beneath my empty glass and held it up, waving it with an exaggerated flourish.

"Relax," he interrupted, his smirk softening. "I was only joking, Cricket. Sorry."

I froze, my words dying on my lips as I stared at the napkin fluttering in his hand. His expression was playful now, his eyes glinting with amusement. But the tension still lingered in my chest, and I wasn't quite ready to let it go.

Sliding next to me in the booth, Ronny placed a bright green drink on the table, its vivid hue glowing under the flashing lights of the club. He draped his arm around my shoulders and I tried not to recoil from his touch. I hated being touched. I felt so small at that moment. But then Graham's voice broke through the tension. "I'll let you get back to your... date?" His words carried a hint of amusement or maybe disapproval. They hung in the air like a challenge.

I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could say anything, Graham was gracefully slipping out of the booth and disappearing into the crowd. A strange sense of longing washed over me as I watched him leave. His intense gaze had left an undeniable pull that I couldn't resist.

"Drink your drink," Ronny said, breaking my thoughts as he pushed the cup closer to me. His grin stretched wide, too self-assured, too smug.

I grabbed the glass and downed it in one swift motion, the sugary concoction burning slightly as it went down. Ronny's smile grew, satisfied, but I didn't give him the reaction he seemed to expect.

"Some guy bought us that round. I'll get us another." He pointed it out to me.

Shifting in my seat, I peeled his arm off me with a firm hand. "I'll be right back," I said, forcing a tight-lipped smile. "I need to use the bathroom."

He moved aside, letting me slide out of the booth. The moment I was free, I headed straight for the bathroom, weaving through the pulsing crowd. My heels clicked sharply against the tiled floor as I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The air was cooler in the bathroom, but it didn't help. A wave of heat surged through me, my face flushing as if I'd been standing under the sun. My thoughts began to blur, and a fiery sensation spread through my body, making my head feel too heavy, my movements sluggish.

I gripped the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My pupils looked blown, my face a strange shade of red. Something was wrong. Very wrong. I needed to find Layla and get out of here.

The moment I stepped out of the bathroom, the room tilted on its axis. The neon lights smeared together in streaks of green and purple, blurring the edges of the crowd. My pulse pounded in my ears as my legs wobbled beneath me. I stumbled back, pressing myself against the cool wall for support, the texture of the brick grounding me as I tried to steady my breath.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the spinning to stop. This wasn't like the panic attacks that gripped me most days—the tight chest, the racing thoughts. This was different. My head felt light, detached, as though it were floating a few feet above my body. My stomach churned, and sweat beaded on my forehead.

I didn't eat dinner. Maybe it's the alcohol? I tried to reason with myself, but a gnawing feeling in my gut told me otherwise.

A sharp vibration against my palm made me jump. My phone. I fumbled it out of my pocket, the screen glowing brighter than the lights around me.

Buzz.

Unknown:Did you enjoy your drink? I left you a little present. I thought a whore like you could handle it.

I repeated my phrase in my head: "I am the storm, not the victim."

The words swam in front of me, but their meaning hit like a freight train. My throat closed, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin. The bile rose, and I gripped my phone tighter, my fingers trembling.

The world around me seemed to narrow, the music thumping in the distance like a heartbeat. My own heartbeat. Too loud, too fast. I clung to the wall, desperate for balance, desperate to escape, but the club spun faster, trapping me in its dizzying vortex.

The narrow hallway felt like it was closing in on me, walls pulsing with a menacing rhythm that made my head pound. Each beat reverberated through my temples like drums, causing my vision to blur and shift between sharp flashes and darkened patches. The floor seemed to be constantly moving beneath me, a disorienting sensation of floating and falling at the same time.

I tried to focus, but my thoughts were sluggish and disjointed. Swallowing became a struggle, my dry throat constricting with each attempt. My limbs grew heavier by the second, making my movements slow and uncoordinated. I fought against a wave of dizziness that threatened to knock me off balance.

In the dim light from the bathroom, I could see Graham approaching in a sleek, perfectly tailored black suit. His presence only added to the overwhelming intensity of the situation. The fabric hugged his muscular frame with a sensual precision, emphasizing every curve and contour. His dark tie was knotted neatly at his collar, exuding an air of sophisticated menace. It was as if the suit had been crafted specifically for him, amplifying his imposing presence.

As our eyes met, I couldn't look away from Graham's intense gaze that seemed to pierce right through me. His smirk sent a shiver down my spine and a flush rose in my cheeks. Despite my efforts to keep composed, I couldn't deny the surge of arousal that spread through me in response to his unspoken promise. I felt completely out of control.

"Are you okay?" he asked, stooping down in front of me.

And then it hit me: the drink.

"The drink," I managed to croak out, feeling trapped in this claustrophobic nightmare. The room spun faster and panic washed over me. My body felt numb and weak as I sank into an endless void. Suddenly everything went black.

I was adrift in a sea of darkness when I heard the screaming. It was my mother's voice, her face blurred and distorted with tears. Through the haze, I could hear myself reassuring her that everything was fine. But then another voice pierced through the chaos.

Someone was calling my name. Their voice started off distant, but as I focused on it, it grew louder and clearer until it finally broke through the darkness and brought me back to reality.

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