Page 51 of Shared Obsession

Ayla nods, her jaw set, eyes burning with purpose. “Okay, let me change,” she says quietly. Dean gives her a reassuring nod, and together they disappear down the hall, both slipping away to get ready. I don’t ask what they’ll wear—I trust them to know what this night calls for. When they return, there’s a new energy humming between them: a shared resolve, steel bright in their eyes.

She meets my gaze again, the fear still there but buried under something harder—vengeance, and the need to claw her way to real freedom. As we load up the Jeep and the bikes rev to life, the air is thick with nerves and grim purpose. Every movement, every check of the gear, every glint of metal is a reminder: tonight, we’re not running. Tonight, we’re hunting.

On the road, the sun is sinking, the world cast in shadows as we pull away from the loft. I glance over at Ayla. She sits upright in the passenger seat, shoulders squared, hands clenched tight in her lap, her breath steady and controlled. There’s a fire in her eyes—something wild and unbreakable. I almost don’t recognize her, this version of Ayla who has survived hell and come out the other side with teeth. “Are you ready for this?” I ask, my voice low.

She turns to me, the answer burning in her voice. “More than you fucking know.”

A chill runs through me—awe, pride, fear, all tangled together. She’s ready to end the man who has haunted her nightmares all those years, the one who was supposed to love and protect her, who instead sold her like a piece of meat. She wants to end it all, to finally take back her story.

As we drive, the city lights flicker past, and I glance at her again. “You know, Alex wants to leave what happens to them up to you,” I say, the gravity of it hanging between us.

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, he does. And I’ve never been more fucking ready. I have been controlled my entire life. These men, I am ready to see the life leave their worthless eyes.”

I grip the wheel tighter, adrenaline flooding my veins. Well, shit. Let’s fucking end this—once and for all.

We reach the club just as the sun dips below the horizon. Nathan’s car is already there, parked in the shadows—a good sign. Dean and Ayla are on point: they’ll go inside, draw Nathan’s attention, let him see Ayla, and lure him out. Alex and I will be waiting in the alley, ready to take him down the second he steps outside.

“Alright, gorgeous,” I murmur, keeping my voice steady as I tuck a loose strand of hair behind Ayla’s ear. “Dean’s right by your side, and Alex and I are just outside. You’re not alone for a second. Keep your head up—you look like a fucking warrior tonight.”

She absolutely does. Ayla’s dressed to kill: a black dress that clings to every curve, the hem scandalously short, the neckline plunging. Her makeup is fierce—smoky liner, lashes thick and bold, lips painted a sharp, dangerous red. Her hair is wild and glossy, falling in waves around her shoulders. Black strappy heels make her legs look endless and lethal. Even her jewelry looks like armor—silver hoops, a cuff at her wrist. There’s a fire in her eyes—a boldness that makes her look untouchable, stronger than I’ve ever seen her.

And Dean? He’s her shadow and her shield tonight. Head-to-toe in black, tailored slacks hugging his long legs, a crisp-collared shirt, a slim black tie, and a fitted jacket that clings to his broad shoulders. His shoes are polished to a mirror shine, his hair artfully tousled to cover his scar, his silver eyebrow ring catching the neon lights. He looks expensive as hell—dangerous and magnetic, confidence and mystery in every line of his body. I can’t help but stare for a second, thinking how fucking sexy he looks, how the club is about to get a show it doesn't deserve. Together, Ayla and Dean are a force—unbreakable, untouchable, and so beautiful it hurts to look at them.

I cup Ayla’s face and kiss her, letting it say everything—protection, pride, faith. She kisses me back, fierce and fiery, pouring all her strength into that one moment. “I’ve got this,” she whispers, and I truly believe it. She is out for blood, and it shows in every move she makes.

She steps out of the Jeep, head high, heels clicking like gunshots, Dean at her side like a shadow. I watch as they walk to the club’s neon-lit entrance, their presence impossible to ignore. Alex and I circle to the alley, every sense on high alert. Now, all we can do is wait—praying our plan holds, praying Ayla walks back out into the night with us.

Chapter Thirty

Ayla

Before we left, Dean spent hours hacking into the club's membership database, doctoring records until our names—his and mine—showed up as established members. He created fake profiles, payment histories, even forged a referral from a high roller who'd never set foot in the club. Our new digital identities were flawless: headshots, birthdates, every credential, every trace of our real lives scrubbed from the system. Dean even spoofed our phones so our GPS would show us at a hotel miles away. When we walked up to the velvet ropes, the bouncer checked our IDs and the members list before waving us in like we belonged.

Inside, Dean's arm wraps around me, and the scent of wealth, whiskey, and men in sharp suits engulfs me. The lights are low and seductive, the club more exclusive lounge than nightclub—black leather booths, gleaming glass tables, waitresses in high-end lingerie strutting by with bottles and trays. This is a men’s playground, built on secrets and money. At the far end, a woman dances on stage—long legs gliding around the pole, glossy hair catching the lights, her body swaying in time to the heavy bass. Spotlights flicker over her, painting her golden and wild, and for a moment, every eye in the room is on her, the air thick with hunger and money.

Something about it hits me—hard. For a split second, I’m not here. I’m back in the before: before Derek, before Charles, before everything went bad. I’m nineteen again, spinning on a stage just like this, feeling powerful, free, untouchable. The lights were mine, the crowd just a blur. I remember laughing with the other girls backstage, sharing lipstick and secrets, daring each other to go a little further, to make a little more. For one brief, perfect year, it wasn’t survival. It was living. I owned myself. I was free.

The memory is bittersweet, sharp as glass. I drag my gaze away from the stage, the ache in my chest a reminder of everything I’ve lost, everything I still want to reclaim.

I scan the room once, twice, three times, but I don’t spot Nathan. I know he’s here. Dean stays close, his palm steady on my hip as I wander deeper, the music vibrating through the floor, the candlelit shadows dancing across the walls. Every step reminds me: tonight, we're not prey. We’re hunting, and the house doesn’t even realize it’s been hacked. Dean murmurs in my ear, “Keep your head up. If you see anything suspicious—anyone watching us too closely—let me know. We have backup plans for backup plans.”

Dean and I make our way to the bar, blending in as we belong. He orders us both drinks—top shelf, neat—but neither of us touches them. I’m stone-cold sober tonight; I need every nerve razor-sharp. I lean forward on the bar, arching my back just enough to give the bartender a generous view of my cleavage, my lips curling into a slow, practiced smile. Dean squeezes my hip, his eyes scanning the mirrors behind the bottles, checking for Nathan’s reflection, never letting his guard down for even a second. Every heartbeat feels like a countdown, the tension as sharp as the ice in our untouched glasses.

“Is there a VIP section, handsome?” I purr, voice dipped in honey and shameless flirtation, just like I used to when I was a dancer at Spotlight. His eyes flick to my chest, lingering, almost dazed. “Yeah, but you need special access,” he manages, his gaze glued to my neckline. Dean’s arm slides around my waist, squeezing a little tighter—a silent warning, but he doesn’t stop me. I keep the act up, letting my gaze lock onto the bartender’s, all heat and invitation. “Oh yeah? What does a girl have to do to get back there?”

I lick my lips slowly, letting the implication hang in the air. He glances between Dean and me, clearly unsure whether to be jealous or impressed. “Oh, don’t mind him,” I say, winking, my grin pure mischief. “He’s harmless.” That’s a lie, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Uhm… I’m not sure…” he stammers, still caught off guard.

I make my move: with a bold flick, I tug my dress down low, flashing him a quick, unapologetic view of my breasts before pulling it back up. His eyes widen, stunned for a heartbeat, then he grins—hooked. “Right this way,” he says, already motioning us over. I shoot Dean a triumphant wink; the vein in his temple twitches, jealousy thick in his eyes, but he knows the score. We have a mission, and tonight, I am a fucking woman on fire.

He leads us through the velvet ropes into the VIP section at the back, and I walk in like I fucking own the place. Dean’s arm is still at my waist, but I’m the one in control now—heels clicking, back straight, head high, every inch of me daring anyone to challenge me. I am done being afraid, and I have a small army behind me now. The air is thick with cigar smoke, money, and the perfume of too many secrets. I scan the dim room—leather booths, gold-rimmed glasses, men in expensive suits watching the stage with bored, predatory eyes.

My gaze sweeps the crowd once, twice, and then—there. Nathan. He’s holding court in a corner booth, flanked by cronies in expensive suits, a drink in one hand, his laughter booming above the music like a warning bell. For a heartbeat, my whole body goes cold, nerves sparking out of control. Horror flashes behind my eyes—Nathan’s hands pinning me down, the stink of his breath and his cigarettes burning into my skin, clause fucking four echoing in my skull. For a split second, I can’t breathe. My knees threaten to buckle. Every instinct is screaming: run, hide, disappear.

But I won’t let him have that power. I shove the panic down, lock it in a box, force myself to breathe. I remind myself: I am not his. Not tonight, not ever again. I keep moving, acting on pure impulse, refusing to freeze. I let my chin lift, spine straightening, determination burning in my veins. I am not the broken girl he remembers. I am here to hunt, not to be hunted.

Dean’s hand finds mine, grounding me with a squeeze. He must feel the tremor in my grip, because he leans in, his voice barely more than a breath against my ear. “He can’t hurt you now, Ayla. Not with me here.” His words burrow deep, steadying me, anchoring me to the present. I squeeze his hand back, drawing strength from the contact, and force myself to keep walking—one foot in front of the other, even as dread claws at my insides. I won’t let Nathan see me flinch. Not now. Not ever again.