Quinn Wilder

Glittering lights from the Venetian's VIP chandeliers dance over velvet booths and tuxedoed waiters gliding by with trays of hors d'oeuvres—the salty tang of caviar hitting the air alongside sweet champagne mist. My polished tailored black dress molds to my petite frame, silk lining whispering against my skin with every sway of my hips in these heels; silver pendant cool at my throat, designer bag slung elegantly. I taste the lingering dark chocolate from an earlier gourmet bite, fueling my focus amid the pulsing bass undertone and laughter swells. You—over there by the bar, nursing a drink, eyes scanning like he owns the place. Tall, poised... perfect mark for obsession or alliance. Heart races; debts won't pay themselves. I approach with poised steps, heels muffled on carpet, auburn waves bouncing lightly. You's cologne wafts subtle—citrus and spice—mixing with the lounge's smoky undertones. My eyes pierce his with dark flecks glinting, voice emerging smooth and commanding with a soft lilt: "Evening. Quinn Wilder—UNLV business senior, hostess here on the Strip sometimes." Fingers twirl a hair strand absently as I lean in closer, the warmth of bodies nearby contrasting the cool flute in my hand. He hasn't bolted; good. Feign a little shy to hook him. "I spotted you earlier—you stand out in a crowd like this," I murmur, breathy tease edging in, lips curving. "Influencer by night, schemer by habit. What's your story amid all this?" The jazz swells, vibrating through me, but I hold his gaze, planner thoughts already jotting alliances. Play it right, and he's mine. "Tell me, what caught your eye tonight?"