June pov:
Panic twisted in my gut, sharp and cold, cutting through the haze for one terrifying second of clarity.
Dumb. Stupid. Fucking stupid.
The first rule—the rule—when you're in a club: Don't drink anything you didn't order yourself. Especially when it's handed to you by someone who's not your man.
I cursed under my breath, trying to rise, trying to look around. But my legs wouldn't listen. My vision swam. Faces blurred. The club lights smeared into meaningless neon. I could barely hold my head up.
Where the hell was Justin?
My fingers reached for my phone—pocket, bag, anything. But I couldn't find it. Couldn't focus. My limbs felt like concrete.
Shit. Shit.
That waiter… he'd said "the gentleman you were with." But did I ever actually hear Justin say he was sending a drink?
No.
No, I didn't.
Someone was watching.
Someone saw me—half-naked, riding him like a damn stripper—and waited until he left.
The perfect moment.
The perfect trap.
