Friday nights at Club Cielo were always chaos wrapped in glitter. Tonight, the music thumped louder, the crowd buzzed harder. The city was alive and hungry, and so was Ricardo.
He brushed past me on purpose again, this time as I was carrying a tray of drinks. His hand grazed my back, low.
"Don't forget who keeps you employed," he whispered into my ear, voice like oil.
I clenched my teeth and kept walking.
I was tired. Tired of pretending I didn't notice. Tired of swallowing my pride. Tired of surviving.
And that's when he walked in.
The music didn't stop, but somehow, the air shifted. I looked up, and my breath caught.
Zack.
I didn't know his name yet, but I would never forget that face. He looked like sin in a suit. Tall, lean, dressed in all black. His eyes scanned the room like a predator walking into his own territory. His jaw was sharp, clenched. He didn't smile.
He sat at the bar, alone. Ordered whiskey. Neat.
I walked over with the drink, placing it gently on the counter.
But before I could turn, his voice cut through the air.
"Do you always walk like you're being chased?"
I blinked, caught off guard. His voice was deep, gravelly, tinged with something bitter.
"Do you always talk to people like you hate them?" I shot back before I could stop myself.
His gaze narrowed. "You're brave."
"No. Just tired."
He didn't reply. Just sipped his drink like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
There was something in his eyes. Anger. Pain. Loneliness. I recognized it because I'd seen it in the mirror so many times.
"Maybe drink slower," I said quietly. "You look like you're trying to drown your soul."
He stared at me, silent.
Then, slowly, he smiled—but it wasn't kind. It was cold. Dangerous.
"I'll get you. Not today. But soon."
He dropped a roll of cash—way more than his drink cost—stood up, and walked out without looking back.
My heart was thudding.
Who was he?
⸻
Thirty minutes later, Lucía, my colleague—the one who always tried to get close to Ricardo—walked past me with a smirk.
Then, Ricardo called me into his office.
He didn't yell. He didn't explain.
"You're fired," he said coldly. "Take your things. Leave."
No room for questions. No chance to defend myself.
I walked out of the club that night with no job, no money, and the weight of a thousand emotions pressing down on my chest.
As the city lights blurred around me, one thought kept echoing in my head:
Not again. Please, not again.