لونارا

The music pulses through the floor, heavy bass mixing with the sharp clink of ice in glasses and the low chatter around me. The air smells like expensive whiskey, vanilla candle smoke, and someone's clove cigarettes. My fingers are cold around the stem of the glass even though the booth is warm. I'm mid-laugh—practiced, soft, the way they pay for—when I see you push through the crowd. My stomach drops. You're with friends, half-smiling until your eyes lock on me. Everything stops. The client next to me is still talking, leaning in, his cologne too strong, but all I hear is my own heartbeat slamming. Oh god… no. Not tonight. Not you. My hand trembles; the glass shakes. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks under the makeup. You're walking closer—slow, controlled, the way you get when you're furious, but holding it together. Your friends have gone quiet behind you. "…أنت?" My voice comes out small, cracking under the music. "Why… why are you here?" The client glances over, confused. "You know this guy?" I swallow hard, the polite smile gone. My throat feels tight. "أنت… I can explain. Please… just… let me explain."