chapter Ⅱ

giselle'𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗏

"Giselle, come on. It's just one night!" Aaliyah whines, throwing herself onto my bed like she owns it.

I shake my head, running a brush through my curls at my vanity. "I already told you, Aaliyah. I don't do clubs."

"Girl, it's been years." She groans, rolling onto her stomach and propping herself up on her elbows. "You can't keep avoiding them forever."

I pause for just a second—just long enough for her to notice—but I keep my face neutral. "I'm not avoiding anything."

She gives me a look, like she sees right through me. "Oh, really? Then why do you look like I just asked you to rob a bank?"

I exhale, setting the brush down. I don't want to have this conversation. Not now, not ever. The last time I stepped foot into a club, I left with a feeling I never wanted to experience again. The flashing lights, the heat, the poor girl in the alley—it still haunts me.

"You know Solange is going, right?" Aaliyah's tone shifts, like she's trying a different angle. "And you know how she is... don't you wanna keep an eye on her?"

I snap my head toward her. "That's low."

She smirks. "But it's working, isn't it?"

Damn her. She knows exactly how to get me. If there's one thing I'll never stop doing, it's looking out for my little sister. Solange is wild—she thrives in chaos, loves the attention, loves the thrill. But I know better. I know what happens when you're not careful.

I exhale sharply, crossing my arms. "Where is this club, anyway?"

Aaliyah grins like she just won a prize. "It's in Hollywood, girl. The place is real nice, you'll love it. Just one night. We don't even have to stay long. Just come, have one drink, dance a little. If you hate it, we'll leave. I promise."

I hesitate. Every part of me is screaming to say no. But another part—the part that's tired of letting the past control me—whispers something else.

Maybe it's time. Maybe it's time to stop letting fear win.

I sigh, rubbing my forehead. "Fine. But if anything feels off, we're leaving."

Aaliyah squeals and jumps up, already pulling open my closet door. "Oh, we are about to make you look so good."

I just shake my head, already regretting this.

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𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗉𝗌 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗎𝖻

The club is alive—loud music, flashing lights, the smell of liquor in the air. I shouldn't be here. I know that. But Aaliyah and Solange insisted, and now I'm standing at the bar, stirring the drink I haven't even touched.

"You don't look like you belong here."

The voice is deep, smooth. I turn my head and see him. He's tall, broad shoulders, dark eyes that hold something I can't quite place. There's a confidence in the way he leans against the bar, like he owns the place. Maybe he does.

"And you do?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

A slow smirk tugs at his lips. "I own this club, sweetheart. So yeah, I'd say I do."

I blink. "Oh."

He chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. "Don't look so surprised. What's your name?"

I hesitate. Something about him puts me on edge, but not in a way that makes me want to run. It's... different.

"Giselle."

"Pretty name." He sets his glass down. "I'm Michael."

I nod, unsure of what to say next. He watches me, like he's trying to figure me out. It makes me nervous.

"You dance?" he asks.

"I take classes."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Serious about it?"

I shrug. "I guess. It's something I do for myself."

He hums, swirling his drink. "I get that. I used to dance too, back in the day."

I tilt my head. "Used to?"

His smirk fades just a little. "Life had other plans."

There's something in his voice—something heavy. And for some reason, I want to know what it is.

"You don't seem like the type to just let life decide for you," I say, watching his reaction.

His eyes flicker with something unreadable before he leans in just a little. "Maybe not. But sometimes, you don't get a choice."

I swallow, gripping my glass a little tighter. There's something about him that reminds me of myself. That weight of the past, of expectations, of things you can't control.

"I know the feeling," I admit quietly.

He studies me for a long moment, then nods like he understands.

For the first time tonight, I don't feel so out of place.

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The air outside is cooler, a relief from the thick heat of the club. I take a deep breath, letting the music fade into the background as I lean against the brick wall. My heart is still racing—not from dancing, but from him.

Michael stands a few feet away, lighting a cigarette. The flicker of the flame casts shadows over his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw. He looks at me, exhaling slowly.

"I'm interested in you, Giselle."

The words settle between us, thick and heavy. I shift against the wall, my arms crossing over my chest.

"You don't even know me," I say carefully.

His lips twitch, like he expected that answer. "I know enough. And I want to know more."

I hold his gaze, searching for something—anything—that tells me this isn't a bad idea. But Michael is hard to read, his expression unreadable, his presence impossible to ignore.

"I don't know," I admit.

"That's fine." He takes another drag of his cigarette. "I'll wait."

Silence stretches between us. The distant sound of sirens wails in the night. He shifts slightly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pen.

"Give me your number."

I hesitate. I shouldn't. But I do. I reach for his pen, my fingers brushing against his. Quickly, I scribble my number on the back of a matchbook and hand it back to him.

Michael studies it for a second before slipping it into his pocket. "Good girl."

I roll my eyes at that. "Don't do that."

He chuckles but doesn't argue. I watch him, debating something in my head before I finally ask, "What exactly do you do, Michael?"

His expression shifts—just slightly—but I catch it. He flicks his cigarette onto the pavement, crushing it under his shoe.

"I handle business."

"What kind of business?"

His jaw tightens. "Nothing you need to worry about."

Before I can press further, he takes a step back. "I'll call you, Giselle." Then, without another word, he turns and disappears into the night.

I exhale, frustrated, confused, intrigued—all at once. What the hell was that?

The club doors swing open, and Aaliyah and Solange step out, still laughing about something that happened inside. Solange spots me first.

"You good, Gigi? You look like you saw a ghost."

"I'm fine," I lie quickly, pushing off the wall.

Aaliyah narrows her eyes. "You sure? You weren't out here alone, were you?"

*"No, I—" I shake my head. "I don't know. Some guy came up to me, but I don't know him."

It's the first time I've ever lied to them. But something tells me I need to keep Michael to myself—for now.

As we walk to the car, I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see him watching me from the shadows.

But he's already gone.

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𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖾𝗅'𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗏

I step back inside the club, the heavy bass vibrating through the floor, the air thick with sweat, perfume, and the bite of alcohol. But I don't hear the music—I'm still thinking about her.

Giselle.

I didn't expect her to get under my skin so quickly. Something about the way she looked at me, hesitant yet curious, like she was trying to figure me out but didn't want to get too close. She will, though. I'll make sure of it.

I scan the room, my eyes landing on one of my guys, cris, leaning against the bar. I walk up to him, keeping my voice low.

"Find out about that girl and her friends. The one with the curls—Giselle. I want to know everything."

cris smirks. "Damn, boss. That serious?"

I just stare at him, and his smirk fades.

"Got it. I'll get back to you."

I leave him to it and head upstairs to my office. The moment I shut the door, silence wraps around me. I drop into my chair, running a hand down my face. This girl is going to be trouble—I can feel it. But for some reason, I don't care.

I pull out the matchbook she wrote her number on, staring at her handwriting for a second. Small, neat, a little slanted. I slip it into my desk drawer.

Then, my phone rings.

I glance at it, frowning when I see the name flashing on the screen.

Marlon.

I pick up. "Yeah?"

"Damn, Mike, that's how you answer the phone now?" Marlon chuckles on the other end.

"Didn't know I needed to roll out a red carpet for you," I say, leaning back in my chair. "What's up?"

"Latoya and I are moving out to L.A. Santa Monica, actually."

That catches my attention. "Since when?"

"We just made the decision. Needed a change. Figured it was time to be closer to family. I was hoping we could see each other, Mike. It's been too damn long."

I rub my temple. I already know what this is—Marlon wants to check up on me, probably thinking I'm still in some run-down apartment trying to figure life out. If only he knew.

"Yeah, we can meet up," I say after a moment.

"Good. We'll talk when I get there. And Mike... stay out of trouble, man."

I smirk. "You know me."

"That's exactly why I'm saying it."

The call ends, and I set the phone down.

Santa Monica. That's close.

I sit back, staring at the ceiling. First, Giselle. Now Marlon moving out here.

Something tells me life is about to get a lot more complicated.

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ooooooaioheggeugejgfb

what will marlon think 

willl toya snicht to joseph about michael's business

and in what type of mess is bey bey  getting in to, lord tina gon kill her