The apartment door burst open, and Amara stumbled inside, breathless, her face lit with a mix of disbelief and joy.

"Zara!" she shrieked, tossing her worn-out handbag onto the couch. "You will not believe what just happened!"

Zara, lounging in an oversized T-shirt with her legs stretched across the tiny coffee table, arched a brow. "Girl, if you're about to tell me you found a twenty in your old jeans, I swear—"

"I got the job!" Amara cut in, her voice trembling with excitement.

Zara shot up, nearly knocking over a half-empty bowl of popcorn. "Shut up!"

Amara nodded frantically, her heart still racing. "I start Monday. A real job. A real salary. In one of the biggest companies in the city!"

Zara let out a high-pitched squeal before tackling Amara into a bone-crushing hug. "Oh my God! This calls for a celebration!"

Amara groaned. "No, no, you know I don't—"

"Stop right there!" Zara held up a finger. "You never go out. Ever. Tonight, that changes. You are going to dress up, drink, and let loose. No arguments."

Amara sighed, already regretting telling her. "Zara..."

"Uh-uh! No backing out!" Zara darted toward her tiny closet, flinging clothes left and right before shoving a sleek black dress into Amara's hands. "Put this on. We are going to celebrate like queens."

---

A few hours later, the bass from the club's speakers pulsed through Amara's body as she stood by the bar, her nerves on edge. The flashing neon lights, the scent of expensive perfume, and the energy of the dance floor made her dizzy.

"Relax," Zara said, handing her a shot. "You deserve this."

Amara hesitated but then, feeling the rush of her new life unfolding, downed the drink. Then another. And another.

The night blurred. Laughter. Dancing. Hands skimming her waist. A deep, husky voice whispering in her ear.

Then—nothing.

---

The next morning, a dull pounding in her head woke her. Sunlight streamed through unfamiliar silk curtains.

Her breath hitched. She was naked.

Her heart pounded as she frantically grabbed the sheets, her mind racing. Flashes of the night before flickered—shots, dancing, a stranger's touch.

Turning, she found the bed empty.

On the nightstand, a crisp stack of cash sat beside a sleek black card.

Her fingers trembled as she picked it up.

A single name and company logo stared back at her. No number, no picture. Just a name.

She had no idea who he was.

But something told her she was about to find out.