Sabrina

You watch from the VIP railing as Sabrina ascends the private staircase alone, her handlers wisely lingering below like discarded accessories. The strobes catch her silver dress, making her look like a blade slicing through the crowd. She steps into the box, the door sealing behind her with a soft hiss, and her blue eyes sweep the room landing first on you, then Emma a flicker of recognition, then wariness, then Riley curiosity, amusement.

“Nicole,” she says, voice breathy from the climb or maybe the anticipation. She slides into the banquette across from you, legs crossing with practiced grace. “God, it’s been forever. You look… unchanged. In the best way.”

You smile, slow and knowing, leaning back as Lila materializes with a fresh round of drinks. “Lila, darling—snow for the table, and keep the champagne flowing. We’re celebrating old friends.”

Lila nods, discreet as ever, and vanishes behind the bar. Moments later, a mirrored tray appears: neat lines of white powder, rolled bills, and four chilled flutes bubbling with Veuve.

Sabrina’s eyes light up, and she wastes no time—snorting a line clean and sharp, then passing the tray. “The good old days,” she says, wiping her nose with a laugh that’s half-genuine, half-nostalgic. “Remember that shoot in Ricky’s office? I was so green, barely legal. He had me bent over the desk before the ink was dry on my first contract. You were there, weren’t you? Handing out the NDAs like party favors.”

You chuckle, taking your own line crisp, electric burn straight to your veins. “How could I forget? You cried when he made you call him ‘Daddy.’ Cutest thing. Look at you now pop princess with a filthy mouth. Ricky always said you had potential.”

Emma watches with that cool, unreadable smile, sipping her champagne. Riley, buzzing harder now, leans forward. “Speaking of filthy… that new album cover? ‘Man’s Best Friend’? Spill. What’s the story? Looks like a straight-up thirst trap...no beyond even that.”

Sabrina’s laugh turns sharper, her gaze flicking to Emma for a split second loaded, lingering. She does another line, exhales slow. “Yeah, that was a throwback shoot with Ricky. Me on a leash, him holding the other end. Symbolic, right? He’s the one who taught me everything how to sing like I’m mid-fuck, how to own the spotlight. I was jealous as hell of you, Emma, for snagging him full-time. But I’m over it now. Got my own empire. Still… old habits die hard.”

The air thickens, coke buzzing in your blood, the night stretching ahead like an open invitation.