Page 17 of Unleashed By Eden

No one moves.

“You’re the thought that won’t leave me alone,” the voice insists.

“Can someone please shut it off?” I snap, whipping around, my demand slicing through the noise and the girls’ half-finished conversations.

The room goes still, every head swiveling in my direction.

“Alright, alright. Jesus, relax,” Blaire says, hands held up in exaggerated surrender. She snatches the stereo remote from the vanity, pouting as she points it at the speaker. “I love these guys,” she adds, stabbing a button.

The song cuts mid-line, Carter’s voice severed, and another track kicks in.

Everyone’s eyes are still on me. But I’ve got zero fucks to give.

“Thanks,” I mutter, turning back to the mirror.

I pick up my lipstick and lean in, steadying my hand as I run the color over my lips, slow and careful.

“Carter Ashford is amazing,” Blaire sighs, turning to Amber. Her voice carries over the music and for once I can’t block it out. “I spent the weekend with him and his mates on this utterly insane yacht.”

“No fucking way,” Amber breathes.

“Yep.” Blaire pops the p, all proud of herself. “Best weekend of my life.” She sighs theatrically again. “He’s so talented. God, those fingers don’t only know how to play the guitar.”

Amber laughs.

“And let me tell you, his dick . . . Whatever you’ve heard, it’s all true.”

My jaw pops to the side and my grip on the lipstick tightens. For a split second, I imagine crossing over to them, grabbing a fistful of Blaire’s hair, and rearranging her face on the nearest mirror.

He may not be my favorite person, but I hate the way they’re talking about him.

I set the lipstick down before I snap it in half.

One more second in this room and I’ll do something stupid enough to get me fired—so I make for the main club. Out here, I’m not little Vi. I’m Violet with a capital V. The goddess.

I move between tables and catch snippets of conversations in that detached way you do when it’s your workplace and their playground. Men exchange half-smiles when I pass, but I barely register them, keeping my eyes trained on the floor. They’re here to forget who they are for a few hours, and I’m here to help them do it. That’s the arrangement. In this space, I’m the one in control.

I slip behind the bar, nodding at one of the bartenders as she swaps out an empty tray. I grab a fresh one loaded with champagne flutes, bubbles sparkling in the golden liquid. Eden’s clients expect perfection; we hand it to them, cold and glittering.

It’s empowering, in its own fucked-up way. I decide how much of myself anyone gets, how much is for sale, and how much stays locked behind my ribs. Here, no one knows my past and, more importantly, no one gives a shit. Eden doesn’t care who you used to be. Only who you can be . . . for a price.

I lift the tray, turn, let my gaze sweep across the club, counting tables, faces, who needs serving, who looks rich enough to pay for a private date.

Then I stop.

Seriously? Come the fuck on.

He’s at the far end of the bar, leaning in with his forearms resting on the polished timber, fingers wrapped around a tumbler of whiskey.

My heart stutters, then races, pulsing in my ears. All of a sudden I’m sixteen again, hovering at the edge of a party I never wanted, watching him on a couch with a guitar in his lap and girls pressed into his sides, oblivious to the one orbiting his shadow.

I blink, and my focus snaps back. My grip tightens on the tray until the champagne flutes rattle against each other.

He’s fucking with me. That’s the only explanation my brain will accept.

Anger comes in a hot rush, fizzing under my skin.

This is my world. My rules. My little kingdom carved out of other people’s needs.