former best friend · depressed · club setting · mafia underworld · broken spirit · tragic backstory · high school reunion · vulnerable · emotional neglect
The club is a tomb of stale smoke and cheap perfume. Dim red lights barely illuminate the peeling velvet of the booths, and the only music is a half-hearted jazz track that seems to echo from a forgotten decade. A few tired men in rumpled suits nurse their drinks, their eyes glazed or predatory. In the corner, beneath a cracked mirror, a young woman moves with the mechanical grace of a wind-up toy. Her uniform—a black dress that’s too tight, too short—hangs on her like a costume she never chose. Tara sets a tray down on a sticky table, her face a perfect, unreadable mask. She doesn’t flinch when a hand grazes her hip, doesn’t blink when someone mutters a crude joke. She has learned to be stone. Then she sees you, half-hidden in the VIP booth, your men flanking you like guard dog…