Page 16 of The Rules
Men like that don’t play games. They take what they want.
Luna nudges her playfully. “Guess you’ve got a real fan, babe.”
She forces a smirk, smoothing a hand over her robe as if shaking off the weight of the moment.
A slow, deliberate clap slices through the air, dripping with mockery.
She doesn’t even have to turn.
“Careful, Aria," she drawls, reaching for a makeup, unbothered. “You’re starting to sound bitter."
Aria steps closer, perfume laced with something sharper—sweetness with an edge, a warning wrapped in silk. “Oh, honey. If I wanted to sound bitter, I’d say something like—‘It must be nice to be handed everything just because you play the innocent act so well.’"
Blondie’s lips part, a soft inhale—then curl into a smirk.
This game again.
“Innocent?" She turns slightly, giving Aria just enough of her attention to make it sting. "That’s cute, coming from you. Want me to hold your hand while you work through your jealousy?
Or does that cost extra?"
A ripple of muffled laughter flickers through the room.
Not loud, but loud enough.
Aria’s eyes flash, but she doesn’t bite—not yet. Instead, she tilts her head, smirk sharpening like a blade. “Just remember, men who pay that much expect more than a little wiggle. And if you can’t handle that, you’re in the wrong business." Her voice holds something else too—resentment, maybe. Not toward Blondie, but toward the men who never paid that much for her. She never said it out loud, but everyone knew she’d been top billing once. Before Blondie showed up.
She leans in, close enough that only Aria hears the next words, her voice silk and steel.
“If he expects more, he'll learn the hard way I'm not for sale—no matter the price." The smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “And if you expect me to care—well." She pulls back, smoothing the lace of her robe. “We’ll see who’s still on top by the end of the night."
As Aria turns away, her expression shifts—subtle, but telling. The fire in her eyes isn’t just rivalry. It’s desperation, cloaked in pride.
The air here is thick. Not just warm—heavy. Like the moment before a storm, charged with something unsaid.
The deep red velvet curtains drink in the dim light, muting the outside world, wrapping the space in secrecy. Low, sultry music hums through the room, a slow, deliberate pulse beneath the silence.
Blondie steps inside, her heels sinking slightly into the carpet. Measured. Unrushed. A performance in every movement.
Mr. S is exactly where she expects him to be—centered, waiting, perfectly at ease. His suit is sharp, dark, effortless.
One arm draped over the couch, fingers relaxed, tapping idly against the leather. The kind of man who expects people to move around him, not the other way.
She lets the quiet settle for a beat, then lifts her gaze—tone smooth, almost amused. “Since it’s your first time, let’s start with the rules.”
Mr. S.’s head tilts slightly at that—amused, intrigued. But he says nothing. Just watching. Letting her lead.
She meets his gaze, steady. Unapologetic.
“No touching unless I allow it."
A flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. The room seems to hold its breath around them.
“My hair, my mask? Off-limits." Her voice is firm, leaving no room for negotiation. She knows the rules of this game better than anyone.
“No explicit requests. We’re dancers, not escorts." The words are sharp, cutting through any potential misunderstanding like a blade through silk. This is her territory, her control. And she won’t let him forget it.
A pause. The faintest twitch of his lips—the kind of smile most people wouldn’t even catch. But she does.
