Crash His Victory Night

I lean against the balcony railing, champagne flute dangling from my fingers, a low laugh escaping me. "Seen it all? Honey, I've watched a senator's wife make out with a ball boy and a rapper try to swim in the pool. But you? You're the first person to cry into a two-thousand-dollar bottle of Dom." I tilt my head, my gaze tracing the mascara streaks on your cheeks. "So tell me, which one of those overpaid divas broke your heart?"

My eyebrows shoot up, and I let out a low whistle, the sound swallowed by the bass thumping from inside. "Marco? The golden boy? The one who just scored the winning penalty?" I step closer, close enough to smell your perfume under the alcohol and tears. My voice drops to a whisper. "And he traded you for... what, a sponsored post?" I shake my head slowly, a smirk playing at the corner of my lips. "That's not just a heartbreak, principessa. That's an insult. And insults deserve a response."

I take a sip from your champagne, letting the bubbles fizz on my tongue before I answer, my eyes never leaving yours. "Oh, I'm not saying you should do something. I'm saying we should do something." I set the glass down on the railing and step into your space, my hand brushing your arm, fingers trailing down to your wrist. "You want to crash his victory party? Make him watch as you walk in on the arm of someone he can't have? Someone who knows exactly how to make him feel small?" My thumb strokes your pulse point, feeling it quicken. "I can be that someone, for one night. What do you say, bella?"

I laugh softly, the sound rich and low, and I brush a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. "Just like that. I've been bored out of my mind tonight. You're offering me a front-row seat to the most dramatic entrance of the evening." My hand slides down to cup your chin, tilting your face up so our eyes meet. "But I need to know you're in. All the way. Because if we walk through that door, I'm going to make sure every camera flash catches us, every whisper is about us, and Marco chokes on his victory champagne." My lips hover near yours, not quite kissing, just breathing the same air. "You ready to break his heart the way he broke yours?"

I pull back just enough to study you, my gaze intense but warm. "A mess? No. You're raw. Real. And that's more dangerous than any perfect lipstick." I step into the bathroom attached to the balcony, grab a paper towel, and wet it with cold water, then come back to you. "Close your eyes." Without waiting, I gently wipe the smudged mascara from under your eyes, my touch surprisingly soft for someone who just proposed an act of beautiful revenge. "There. Now you look like a woman who's been kissed breathless, not one who's been crying." I toss the towel aside and take your hand, threading my fingers through yours. "I've got a spare suite key. We'll freshen up, fix your hair, maybe find you something that shows a little more skin. Then we'll make an entrance they'll write about in the tabloids."

I pull you closer, my body pressed against yours, the warmth of my skin seeping through the thin fabric of my dress. I can feel your breath hitch. "I'm always serious about chaos, bella. It's the only thing that's ever honest." My hand slides to your lower back, fingers splaying, pressing you into me just enough that you feel the curve of my hip against yours. "And I'll be honest with you too. I'm not doing this just for the thrill. There's something about you, standing out here alone, broken and furious, that makes me want to be the one who puts you back together. Even if it's just for tonight." My voice drops to a whisper, rough and low. "But if we do this, I'm going to need you to trust me. Completely. Can you do that?"

A slow smile spreads across my face, genuine and a little dangerous. "Isabella. But tonight, you can call me whatever you want when we're whispering in each other's ears." I release your hand and step back, gesturing toward the door that leads inside. "Come on. My suite is on the fifteenth floor. We've got about twenty minutes before the after-party peaks, and I want you looking like a goddess of revenge when we walk in." I pause at the door, looking back over my shoulder, my dark eyes gleaming under the golden light. "And Marco? He won't know what hit him."

I turn fully, facing you, my hand resting on the doorframe. The movement makes the slit of my dress fall open, revealing a long stretch of tanned thigh. "If he tries to talk to you? You look at me. You put your hand on my chest, right here," I tap my sternum, "and you say, 'Isabella, I need another drink.' And I'll take care of the rest." I step closer again, close enough that my breath ghosts over your ear when I whisper. "But if he touches you—if he so much as brushes your arm—then I get to have some fun. And I promise you, the look on his face when I pull you into a kiss in front of every camera in the room will be worth every tear you've shed tonight." I pull back, my eyes searching yours. "Are you ready, principessa?"

I take your hand again, my fingers lacing with yours, warm and firm. I lead you through the service corridor, away from the main party, my heels clicking on the marble floor. We step into the elevator, and I press the button for the fifteenth floor. As the doors slide closed, I turn to you, pinning you with a gaze that's half challenge, half promise. "One more thing before we get to my room." I step into your space, my body pressing you against the elevator wall. The mirror behind you reflects us both—my dark hair spilling over my shoulder, your eyes wide and waiting. "When we walk into that party, I'm going to touch you like I own you. And you're going to let me. You're going to lean into it, like you've been craving it all night." My hand comes up to rest on your waist, thumb tracing a slow circle over your hip bone. "Think you can do that without blushing too hard?"

I laugh, a genuine, surprised sound that echoes in the small elevator. My forehead drops to rest against yours for just a second. "God, you're perfect. Broken and funny and ready to burn it all down." I pull back as the elevator dings, the doors sliding open to reveal a quiet, plush hallway. "This way." I lead you to a door at the end, swipe the keycard, and push it open. The room is enormous—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights, a massive bed with white linens, and a minibar that probably costs more than my rent. I kick off my heels and gesture to the bathroom. "There's a makeup kit in there, and a dress in the closet I was saving for a special occasion. It's red. It'll make Marco regret every choice he's ever made." I walk to the minibar, pulling out two small bottles of vodka, and toss one to you. "Shot for courage? Then we get to work."