The club’s purple LED lighting washed over her skin, turning warm honey into something almost luminescent. She adjusted a stray strand of hair behind her ear—subconscious, effortless—and the movement was so natural it made the whole room feel staged in comparison.
She caught me watching for a moment, her eyes lifting from the screen. Our gazes met for half a second too long.
There was a hitch in her breath—small, but noticeable. Her free hand smoothed a fold in her dress that didn’t actually exist. A micro-adjustment—women always did that when they’d suddenly become aware of being seen in a way that mattered.
It was adorable. And real. And I had a weakness for real.
"Mom, I should probably go," she said into the phone, though her mother already seemed to be wrapping up. "Yes, I’ll call you tomorrow morning. Love you too. Okay. Bye."
She ended the call and finally turned her full attention to me. Her posture wasn’t defensive anymore; it had softened, opened—still cautious, but reachable.
"Thank you," she said, quieter than before, none of the earlier steel. "You didn’t have to do that."
"Yeah, I did." I shrugged lightly. "Anyone hassling someone for calling their mother in the hospital needs a reality check. How’s she doing? Your mom?"
She blinked like she hadn’t expected me to ask about her mom. The tension in her shoulders eased a little, just enough to show she’d been carrying it the whole night.
"She’s... okay. Hip replacement surgery. She’s recovering well, but she worries. A lot. She wanted to go over her physical therapy schedule again."
"Hip replacement’s no joke. My mom’s a nurse. She’s seen plenty. Recovery can be rough."
Her eyes shifted, something warm slipping through the cracks of her earlier fire. "Your mom’s a nurse? That... explains it."
I tilted my head. "Explains what?"
"That you understood." And then she smiled—an actual smile, not the battle-ready one she’d been using on the bartender. Her whole face changed with it. "Most people would’ve just sat there and pretended not to notice. Maybe felt bad for two seconds. You actually stepped in. That’s... rare."
"Not that rare. You just have to give a shit," I said.
She laughed. A real one. Soft, unguarded, like she wasn’t expecting to.
"I’m Priya. Priya Sharma."
"Peter. Peter Carter." I offered my hand.
She took it, and her handshake had that perfect balance—firm without trying to crush bones. The kind of shake from someone who learned early that the world doesn’t slow down for polite people.
"So, Peter Carter..." She released my hand but her presence stayed close, like she wasn’t done evaluating me yet. "What brings you to Elysium on a Sunday night? You don’t exactly scream ’let’s go clubbing.’"
"Dinner with my girlfriend’s family. Her dad insisted on drinks. I dropped him home and came back to think."
She gave a skeptical eyebrow. "Think? In a club? That’s basically meditating inside a blender."
"VIP lounge is quiet enough. Usually." I flicked my gaze toward the corner where the VIP tornado-snorting group had transformed into quiet church mice. "When people aren’t auditioning for America’s Loudest Adults."
She followed my look, smiled with satisfaction so pure it could’ve been illegal."That was... honestly, that was the highlight of my week."
"It was impressive," I said. "You walked over there like you owned the entire building."
"I paid five-hundred dollars to get in here. For tonight, that counts as ownership." She took a sip of her drink, her posture finally settling. "What about you? Why are you really sitting at a bar watching strangers have video calls?"
I leaned in just a bit—enough to make the conversation feel like ours, not part of the club noise."Honestly? I’ve been building an empire for a few weeks straight and needed a second to breathe. Then you shut down that bartender and vaporized those VIPs and I thought, ’well... she’s interesting.’"
She laughed, this incredulous little sound."’Building an empire’—that is either the most pretentious line I’ve ever heard, or you’re serious and now I need to know everything."
"A little of both," I admitted. "I’m seventeen. Made some money. Bought some companies. Now I’m trying to balance pretending I know what I’m doing with actually figuring out what the hell I’m doing." 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚
She stared at me. Long. "You’re seventeen."
"Yeah."
"You just bribed three grown men like it was pocket change. You’re wearing clothes that probably have their own mortgage. And you’re seventeen."
"Technically sixteen until next month." I lifted a shoulder. "But who’s counting?"
"Jesus Christ." She swung back her drink and signaled the bartender—who approached with the energy of a man trying not to disturb a sleeping tiger. "Another. And whatever he’s having."
"I’ve got wine at my table—"
"Nope." She cut me off, leaning her elbow on the bar. "I’m buying you a drink. Consider it payment for saving me from being thrown out of the club I paid five-hundred ridiculous dollars to enter."
I couldn’t help the smile. "In that case, I’ll have whatever you’re having."
The bartender poured with supernatural speed and retreated like I’d paid him extra to walk backward.
The beep beep kind.

She laughed—real, belly-level—and clinked her glass against mine. "Well, Peter Carter. Thanks for being interesting. And for letting me finish my call. And for reminding me that chivalry isn’t completely dead."

"My story? I’m a corporate lawyer. Twenty-eight. Been at one of LA’s biggest firms for five years. Indian parents who wanted me to be a doctor—settled for lawyer once they realized I’d rather argue than heal. I’m here because I just closed a $200 million merger and my colleagues bailed on celebration drinks, and I refused to go home and sit in silence."
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