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I flash Thalia a “don’t panic” look as I let him guide me onto the dance floor—her only response being a dramatic thumbs-up and a conspiratorial smirk.

Two songs in, I’ve already learned more about Theo than I expected. He’s thirty—called it. A proud bachelor and, yes, the textbook definition of a charming playboy.

But he’s also oddly respectful, aware, and refreshingly… normal.

He hasn’t said anything inappropriate, hasn’t touched me in any wrong way. It’s just dancing—spinning, smiling, a few jokes shared in the thumping rhythm of the music.

Still, I can’t help noticing the daggers being thrown my way by half the women around us.

I lean in, bringing my lips close to his ear. “For my safety, I think I should keep a little distance from you.”

He glances down at me, confused. “What do you mean?”

I laugh softly. “Since I walked in here and stopped at your table, I’ve felt every woman in this club hate me with the fire of a thousand suns. I don’t know how many of them you’ve had a thing with, but I’m pretty sure they’re all hoping for an encore—or a first round.”

He throws his head back and laughs—loud and rich—then leans in again. “Well, tonight I’m keeping it PG. Might even go home alone, shock the world.”

I laugh with him, my chest lighter than it’s been in days.

We keep dancing—not close, not suggestive—just enough to feel the rhythm, to enjoy the noise and the freedom of pretending.

Theo spins me once, then raises an eyebrow when I land a little off-balance. I laugh again, more at myself this time.

“Wow.” He grins, cocking his head. “Did you just trip on air?”

“I tripped on your ego,” I shoot back, eyes narrowing with a smirk. “It takes up the entire dance floor.”

He gives me a dramatic look. “You wound me.”

“Oh please.” I scoff, brushing hair from my cheek. “You love it.”

He leans in slightly, just enough for me to catch a hint of his cologne—something dark and clean, not overpowering, but sharp enough to linger. “I do.”

There’s a strange safety with Theo. Something oddly grounding about him, like he knows exactly how close to stand without crossing a line.

We drift into conversation as we move—just simple things. London. The food scene. The business scene. He laughs like a man who’s used to trouble and totally unbothered by it.

And for a moment—just one—I let myself enjoy it. The peace. The calm. The conversation.

But suddenly, out of nowhere—I feel it.

Before I even see him—I feel him.

Like a storm rolling in behind me. A pressure in the air that makes the hairs in the back of my neck stand up. The kind of tension that has no sound, no shape—just presence.

My skin prickles. My breath catches. My knees threaten to fold.

A moment later I hear him. Low. Lethal. Acid and steel.

“Theo, you’ve got two seconds to take your hands off my wife before I break both of them.”

Theo pauses, still grinning, both hands lifted in mock surrender.

“Nickolas Hardy, married. Who would’ve thought?” he says, his tone half-teasing, half genuinely impressed.

Then he glances at me, his eyes playful.

“Babe, if I’d known you were his wife and he’d be watching us dance, with all due respect… I might’ve pushed the boundaries a bit more. Just to see how jealous and possessive he really is.”