Chapter 1: The Contest

The golden desert sun painted bold stripes across the cracked blinds in Zaria's apartment. Working late nights bartending at The Mirage Den, a members-only speakeasy hidden beneath a Las Vegas casino, made mornings an abstract concept. Noon was basically dawn.

Zaria yawned, stretching out across her cotton sheets with a soft, contented sigh. Her dark curls fanned out over the pillow as she rolled onto her stomach, basking in the brush of sunlight that tickled her exposed back. She never wore much to bed - just a silk cami and lace shorts, both nearly transparent. Something about the heat, the dry air, the desert's stillness? it begged for skin.

A breeze crept in from her cracked window, warm and dry. Zaria loved it. She needed it. The quiet, the distant city hum, the way her body thrummed with leftover adrenaline from the night before.

And what a night it had been.

Jace had come in again. The "illusionist" with too many secrets and much swagger. He didn't work at The Mirage Den, but he might as well have - he showed up almost every night, always performing just for her. Palming fire, whispering wicked ideas into her ear with that rough velvet voice, then vanishing before she could respond. Literal smoke and mirrors.

And last night, he'd brought a card trick that ended with a kiss barely brushing the inside of her wrist. No touch anywhere else. Just a dare. A spark. A breath.

Zaria groaned, flipping over. Her thighs clenched at the memory. That flicker of contact still pulsed between her legs.

She slid a hand downward? then cursed when something heavy landed on her stomach with a grunt.

"Zuzu!" she yelped, glaring at her fat bulldog as he wheezed a good-morning snort directly into her face.

Zaria pushed him off and sat up, chest heaving, desire replaced with laughter. "You are the world's worst cockblock," she muttered, scratching behind his ears.

Feeding Zuzu and brewing some cheap chicory coffee, Zaria let her thoughts drift. Her skin still tingled from the almost-touch. It had become a ritual - this dance with Jace. Sometimes verbal, sometimes physical, but always skirting the edge of control.

It had started six months ago, when he'd caught her pouring a drink wrong - something no one ever noticed - and called her out in front of a private poker table. She'd turned it into a joke, but he hadn't laughed. Just smiled. A slow, lazy thing that had crawled under her skin.

Now they played this game: one-upmanship through desire. Push and pull. He'd flirt, she'd ignore. She'd tease, he'd vanish.

But last night? That wrist kiss had set a new bar. And tonight? she planned to destroy him

After a quick shower and a blast of citrus body oil - his favorite scent - Zaria sifted through her closet. She bypassed her usual slinky dresses and settled on something far more lethal: a black satin suit, cropped at the waist, no shirt underneath. Just a bralette made of delicate gold chains. Paired with four-inch stilettos and a dark lip, she looked like temptation in the shape of ambition.

She studied her reflection. Confident. Calculated. Catlike. Just the way Jace liked her - right before he lost control.

By the time she arrived at The Mirage Den, the sun had dipped low behind the mountains, casting the Strip in glittering neon. The velvet rope opened for her like always. Inside, the world shimmered: jazz and laughter, low lights and cigar smoke.

Zaria's heels clicked across the marble as she strutted past the bar.

She didn't have to look to know Jace was watching.

He was always watching.

He waited by the roulette table tonight, leaning casually against the green felt, flipping a poker chip between long fingers. His dark blazer looked custom-cut and dangerous, like it might contain knives. Or secrets.

"Zaria." He drawled her name like a sin. "You wore that for me."

She didn't pause. Just met his gaze and arched a brow. "Or I wore it for the hundred-dollar tip I'll get when I pour drinks without spilling."

He chuckled. "Still pretending this is about the job?"

She smirked and leaned in, letting her gold chains swing between them. "Still pretending you're in control?"

His smile faded slightly, replaced by something darker. Hungrier. "Careful, Z. I bite."

"You say that like it's a threat."

Jace's eyes dropped to her chest. The chains shimmered with her breath. She caught his gaze again, daring him to reach out. He didn't. He never did. Not in public.

Which was why she took a single step closer, brushing her lips along his jaw like a secret, and whispered: "Tonight, illusionist, you disappear first."

Then she turned and walked away.

Hours passed. She poured bourbon, dodged leering clients, and let her eyes wander toward Jace just enough to keep the tension hot.

When her break came, she slipped behind the red curtain leading to the private cigar lounge. Zaria perched on the edge of a crushed velvet bench, heart racing.

He didn't make her wait.

Jace stepped through the curtain, silent as a shadow. One hand gripped her throat - not tight, just enough to own her stillness. His mouth brushed hers.

"I'm done playing," he whispered.

"Too bad," she replied, curling her fingers into his shirt. "I'm just getting started."

He shoved her gently back against the wall, fingers sliding beneath her blazer to tug at the chain bralette.

It snapped.

Gold links fell between them like coins hitting the floor.

And just when she arched, ready to devour him -

He stepped away.

Disappeared into the dark.

Leaving her panting. Exposed. Cursed.

Zaria cursed. Out loud this time.

Oh, it was on.

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