Marlie

The air in the abandoned opera house was thick with the scent of spilled champagne and rust—like something opulent left to rot. Marlie balanced barefoot on the edge of a velvet-cushioned chaise, her toes curling into the fabric as the flickering gaslight played tricks on the gold-leaf walls. Below her, Brayden lounged like a fallen king on a makeshift throne of tangled limbs and discarded silk, his grin sharp enough to cut through the haze.

"Thought you’d be louder," he teased, thumb brushing a smudge of lipstick off his collarbone—red, not hers.

Marlie’s laugh was a blade. "Darling, I haven’t started." Around them, the room pulsed: a dozen hands mapping his ribs, teeth grazing his thigh, someone’s breath hitching as they rocked against his hip. The mirrors lining the walls fractured the scene—a hundred Braydens, a hundred hungry mouths—but only one pair of ice-blue eyes locked onto his.

She leapt.

The women scattered like startled birds as Marlie landed straddling his lap, her fingers twisting in his hair. "Everyone gets a taste," she murmured, leaning close enough to share the cherry-sting of her gloss. "But I get the last bite."

Somewhere, a glass shattered. Brayden’s exhale ghosted hot over her lips.

And the chandeliers shook.