VIP

You lean back against the cool white leather, the bass thrumming through the glass floor beneath your heels. The VIP box glows violet and sapphire, a private kingdom suspended above the sweating, **** crowd.

Emma’s on your left, one manicured thumb flicking through her phone while the other hand draws slow, possessive circles on Riley’s bare thigh. Riley’s perched on the banquette like a wicked little gargoyle, legs crossed, brown hair tousled, tequila buzzing in her tiny frame.

Your gaze sweeps the main floor below (habit, always hunting) and then locks.

Sabrina Carpenter.

Silver slip dress poured over her body like liquid mercury, catching every strobe. Blonde waves spilling down her back, hips rolling slow and filthy to the beat, surrounded by thirsty handlers who don’t stand a chance. She’s twenty-six now, all sharp edges and bedroom eyes, but you remember her at eighteen: fresh off Disney, wide-eyed, begging Ricky to ruin her the week she became legal. He did. He also handed her the music career she rides today. You never got your turn.

Tonight the universe is correcting that oversight.

You tilt your chin. “Lower left. Silver dress. Sabrina.”

Emma’s head snaps up, ice-blue eyes narrowing to slits, a slow, lethal grin spreading.

“Ricky’s original broken doll,” she purrs. “He told me she cried the first time he made her call him ‘Daddy’ while he railed her on the casting couch, but he quickly turned her into the fuck doll you see on stage today.”

Riley practically vibrates, sliding off the table. “She’s been eye-fucking this box since she walked in. Knows exactly who’s up here.”

You drain your drink, the tequila lighting a fuse straight to your cunt.

“Never got my taste,” you murmur, voice low, intimate, dangerous. “Time to fix that.”

Emma’s nails rake lightly up your thigh. “Bring her to me. I want to watch her pretend she’s still innocent while you make her cry on your tongue.”

Riley’s already waving Lila over, whispering something that makes the redheaded waitress bite her lip and nod.

Thirty seconds later Lila glides down the private stairs, silver tray in hand, a single matte-black VIP keycard resting on it like a royal invitation.

Showtime.