The Velvet Anchor held its breath as Jayla leaned her head against her palm, mirroring Andrés’s casual sprawl with deliberate mockery. Her heart hamred a frantic rhythm against her ribs—part adrenaline, part sothing dangerously close to anticipation—but her face stayed cool, unreadable.
"Make it quick, Andrés. I have a date with a bottle of wine and a book that has a much better plot than this."
Andrés tilted his head, a shadow of a smirk curling his lips like smoke. "The wedding. Eric and Janet. It’s in two weeks. Are you planning on crashing it? I can provide the entry, the explosives, or just a front-row seat to watch the fallout."
Jayla let out a short, dry laugh and glanced down at her boots, the black leather still faintly dusted from the street outside. "No. I don’t have that kind of ti, Andrés. Destroying his Ferrari was enough of a climax for . Seeing him cry over a pile of Italian leather and shattered glass? That gave all the closure I need. I’m moving on to the sequel."
What Jayla didn’t know—what she couldn’t possibly know—was that the entire spectacle had been captured.
Her rage.
Her bat swinging in perfect, furious arcs.
The way the Ferrari’s windshield spiderwebbed, then imploded under her final, cathartic blow.
The video was already moving through the shadows—traded like dark currency among n who collected leverage the way others collected art. Before Eric could stand at an altar in two weeks and recite vows he’d never ant, the footage would detonate. His family’s na, his fiancée’s patience, his carefully curated image—everything would collapse under the weight of one woman’s public execution of his pride.
Jayla thought the Ferrari was the end of her revenge.
It was only the opening act.
She lifted her gaze then, studying the sharp, guarded planes of Andrés’s face. The way he’d looked at Eric back at the ice-cream parlor hadn’t been casual disgust. It had been older. Deeper. Personal.
"You know," she said, voice dropping into sothing quieter, more serious, "back there... it seed like you two used to know each other."
The smirk vanished. For a split second the cocky, flirtatious mask cracked, revealing jagged edges beneath. His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking in his cheek like a warning.
"We knew each other," Andrés replied, tone suddenly cold and clipped. "In a different life. One where I was a different man and he was... well, exactly who he is now. But let’s not talk about that."
He swiveled his stool fully toward her, closing the distance until she could feel the heat rolling off him—expensive tobacco, cold rain, and sothing darker underneath. "Let’s focus on the fact that you owe a conversation from two years ago."
Jayla felt the intuition prickle along her spine. She read too many dark novels; she recognized deflection when it wore charm like armor. Andrés was steering her away from Eric’s na, but the silence he’d wrapped around it scread louder than any confession.
"So," he murmured, voice sliding into that private, intimate register that made the bar feel smaller. "I fell asleep in that hotel room, and then you just... vanished. Poof. Like a ghost with a strawberry-scented mory. In what universe does a woman walk away after a night like ours... and leave looking for her for two damn years?"
Jayla accepted her fresh gin and tonic from Edward with a small nod of thanks. She took a slow sip, li sharp on her tongue, and regarded Andrés through her lashes. "What part of ’one-night stand’ do you not understand? The clue is in the na. One. Night. No strings. No morning-after interrogations."
Andrés’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous. "And yet here I am. Two years later. Still wondering where you went."
"And how did you even know I disappeared?" she shot back, voice laced with mockery.
"I’m a De La Vega," he countered, smirk widening. "We don’t do ’one’ of anything. We do ’all’ or ’nothing.’ And you, Jayla, were definitely not nothing." He leaned in closer. "Did you know I searched for you? Every club, every high-end bar, every dark corner of this city. You were a hard woman to find, Jayla White."
The admission landed like a spark on dry tinder. Jayla felt a traitorous flutter in her chest—the sa one she’d felt earlier at the ice-cream shop—but she refused to hand him the satisfaction.
"I didn’t know," she lied smoothly. "And frankly, I didn’t care. Why would a man like you hunt a one-night stand for two years? Was the sex really that morable, or is your ego just that bruised?"
Andrés closed the last inch of space between them, his scent enveloping her completely. "Because you amused , Jayla. Most people are terrified of , or they want sothing from . You? You just wanted to ruin because a book character died. You’re the most entertaining thing that’s happened to in a decade. And because I’ve never forgotten the way you tasted."
Jayla’s breath caught—just for a heartbeat.
Edward and Simon were both shalessly eavesdropping now. Hands moved over glasses in automatic rhythm, but their ears tuned to the drama unfolding at the center of the bar.
They exchanged a glance. Simon mouthed, "Jesus Christ," across the bar and resud wiping the sa spot for the third ti.
Jayla drained her drink in one long, defiant swallow. The glass hit the wood with a decisive clack. She stood, smoothing the red leather of her shorts, eyes locking onto Andrés with a spark that was equal parts lethal and playful.
"Well then," she announced, loud enough for the handful of patrons to turn. "I guess you’re going to have to work a hell of a lot harder than handing a McLaren if you want to win back, Andrés. I’m not a dead book character anymore. I’m the woman with the bat."
She turned to Edward, offering him a sharp, knowing nod. "It was nice seeing you again, Edward. I’ll make sure to give your regards to Eloise."
Edward blinked, startled by the quiet insight in her words.
Jayla pivoted back to Andrés one last ti. "I have to leave early."
Andrés rose, brow furrowed in genuine disappointnt. "What? I thought we were going to have fun. Celebrate your new ownership."
Jayla leaned in, red lips brushing the shell of his ear in a ghost of a whisper. "All the fun you’ll be having tonight, Andrés, is with yourself. Have a good night."
She pulled back, delivered a wink that burned like wildfire, and strode toward the door without a backward glance.
The bell above the entrance chid once—soft, mocking—and then she was gone.
The bar exhaled.
Andrés remained standing by the stool, bourbon untouched, gaze fixed on the door as though he could will her silhouette back through it. He let out a slow, ragged breath.
"I think I’m in love," he muttered, voice thick with stunned, almost terrified sincerity.
Simon snorted so violently he nearly fumbled a bottle. "You think? Brother, you look like you just got run over by a freight train wearing six-inch heels."
Edward poured Andrés a fresh zcal without being asked. "She’s sothing else."
Andrés accepted the glass, swirled the liquid once, stared into the amber depths like they might hold the answer to whatever had just happened to him. "Yeah. She is."
Edward said nothing. He simply watched the door, mind drifting to Eloise—wondering if his quiet "regards" would ever reach her in the glittering cage Luciano had built around her.
The saxophone sighed on, low and mournful, as the night stretched forward into whatever ruin or redemption waited next.
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