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."

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.

Priya picked up her fresh glass, giving me this slow, deliberate look over the rim like she was running my soul through airport security.

The beep beep kind.

"So. Peter Carter. Empire builder. Sixteen years old. Girlfriend whose family you're meeting." Her eyes narrowed, amused. "What's your story? And I want the real one. Not the sanitized version."

I lifted my own glass, gave it a dramatic little swirl like I knew what I was doing.

Then decided—honestly, screw it. She'd earned the messy cut.

"My story? It's complicated. But the short version is: I was broke. Like… broke broke. Family-digging-in-couch-cushions broke. Then I got stupid lucky. Built an AI that printed money faster than God. Met a girl who didn't care that my bank account looked like a jump scare. Started buying companies because apparently I'm freakishly good at capitalism. And now I'm in a VIP club trying to figure out how to turn Lincoln Heights into a tech hub while also managing more than fifteen women who all think they're my girlfriend and—"

I stopped. Blinked at myself.

"…Okay, that last part makes me sound terrible."

Priya stared, eyebrows somewhere near the lighting rig. "Fifteen women?"

"More," I said. "It's… aggressively complicated."

"I'll bet." Her mouth curved, sharp and entertained. "You're either the most interesting person I've met in years or you're completely full of shit and I can't decide which."

"Probably both," I said because honesty is cheaper than therapy.

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."

"Chivalry had nothing to do with it," I said. "Just basic human decency."

"Same thing these days," she murmured, like she'd seen enough of the world to know better.

We sat there for a moment. The club's bass thumped like it was trying to restart my heart. Purple-blue lights washed over her face, made her look like a movie frame. Two strangers orbiting each other for no rational reason.

"So," I said eventually. "What's your story? And I want the real one. Not the sanitized version."

Priya set her glass down, shifting to face me fully—like she was unbuttoning a chapter of her life.

"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."

She exhaled, squeezing tension out like it owed her money.

"And I was having a perfectly nice conversation with my mother until some bartender decided he was the final boss of customer service."

"Corporate lawyer," I repeated. "Yeah. That tracks. The confidence. The way you handled those VIPs."

"You learn to project confidence in my field. Weakness gets you eaten alive."

"Same in mine," I said. "Except mine is tech and empire-building and dealing with women who—"

I cut myself off again, grimacing. "I seriously need to stop mentioning the women thing."

"Why?" She leaned in, elbows on the bar, fully invested. "Fifteen women. All think they're your girlfriend. How does that even work?"

"Very carefully," I said. "And with a lot of honesty. And probably some supernatural help, but that's another story."

She snorted. "Supernatural help. Right. Because you're a sixteen-year-old empire builder with fifteen girlfriends and supernatural powers. Why not? Go big."

"You don't believe me."

"I don't know what to believe about you, Peter Carter." Her gaze stayed locked on mine—dark, curious, razor-sharp. "But I know I'm interested in finding out."

And there it was.

That click.

The point where conversation stops being small talk and starts being… something else. Something with teeth.

I held her gaze.

Didn't blink. Didn't look away.

"Well, Priya Sharma," I said softly. "I've got time. And apparently you do too. So why don't we find out together?"

Her smile spread slow—confident, dangerous, like she already knew exactly how this night would end.

"Why don't we?"

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