Reckoning

The bass thumped through the floor, sending vibrations up through the soles of my shoes as I locked the door to the small, dimly lit bathroom stall. The music outside was a steady, pulsing heartbeat, the lifeblood of the nightclub. I leaned against the metal wall, inhaling deeply through my nose to steady myself. The scent of sweat, alcohol, and something vaguely floral clung to the air.

I had exactly fifteen minutes before he arrived.

Fifteen minutes to erase one version of myself and construct another.

I shrugged off my coat and tossed it into the toilet — not to flush, just to leave it behind. The bulky sweater went next, then the ripped jeans. The outfit was forgettable, something that blended into the background. That was the point. A girl in a sweater and jeans was unremarkable. But that wasn’t who I needed to be tonight.

From the depths of my bag, I pulled out the dress — black, tight, a whisper of satin that clung in all the right places. It shimmered under the harsh fluorescent light, reflecting the raw, anxious energy coursing through me. Sliding it over my body was like stepping into a new skin.

I exhaled, long and slow.

The transformation had begun.

I dug deeper into the bag and found the wig. Blonde, sleek, expensive-looking. My real hair — dark and shoulder-length — was quickly twisted up, pinned under a nylon cap, and then hidden beneath the synthetic strands. I adjusted the wig in the mirror, ensuring it looked natural. The illusion was perfect.

Next, makeup. I had already applied a neutral base at home, but this needed to be dramatic — sharp cheekbones, deep red lips, eyes lined with inky precision. My hands moved quickly, muscle memory guiding me. Every stroke of the brush, every swipe of color was a piece of the new identity falling into place.

I checked my watch. Seven minutes.

A new person stared back at me from the mirror.

Not the girl who worked as a paralegal by day, who blended into crowds, who spoke softly and walked quickly, never lingering. This woman was different. She was fearless. She was untouchable.

She was my ticket to survival.

I slid my hands down the sides of my dress, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. The last touch was the heels — four inches, red, expensive-looking even though they were secondhand.

I tucked my old clothes into the bag, zipped it up, and left it on top of the toilet tank. Disposable. Just like the identity I was shedding.

The final detail- a perfume — rich, musky, something that smelled like money and recklessness. I sprayed it onto my wrists, my neck. The scent sealed the transformation.

Taking one last breath, I pushed open the stall door and stepped out.

The bathroom was empty except for a girl fixing her lipstick at the mirror. She glanced at me, then did a double take. I saw the flicker of confusion in her reflection. She had seen me enter as one person and emerge as another.

Good.

I ignored her and strutted to the door, my heels clicking against the tiled floor. Each step solidified my new persona. I was no longer the girl who hid in corners, who whispered her order at coffee shops, who hesitated at crosswalks.

I was her now.

And she had a job to do.

The club was packed, bodies pressing together in rhythm with the music. Dim lights and swirling colors made it easy to disappear, to slip through the crowd unnoticed. But I wasn’t here to be unnoticed.

I was here to be found.

I made my way to the bar, perched on a stool, and crossed my legs. The bartender, a man with tattooed arms and tired eyes, gave me a once-over and smirked.

“What can I get you?”

I tapped a manicured nail against the bar. “A dirty martini.”

He nodded and turned away. I let my gaze drift across the room. He wasn’t here yet, but he would be soon.

His name was Nick Romero. Wealthy, powerful, and reckless. The kind of man who believed he was untouchable. He had been in the papers last year — some scandal involving a woman who disappeared after last being seen with him. Nothing had ever been proven, but I knew the truth.

Because that woman had been my sister.

And tonight, Nick Romero was going to meet his reckoning.

The moment he walked in, I felt it. A shift in the air. The weight of his presence. He was the kind of man who made sure the room revolved around him, whether people wanted it to or not.

He was tall, sharply dressed in a tailored suit, and radiated confidence. His gaze scanned the club, eyes flitting past me once, then snapping back. Hooked.

Good.

I tilted my chin down, just slightly, letting my lips part in a subtle, unreadable smile. The kind that suggested secrets worth uncovering.

He took the bait.

Within minutes, he was beside me, his cologne — something woody and expensive — curling into my senses. He ordered a drink, then turned to me.

“Waiting for someone?” His voice was smooth, practiced.

I swirled my martini. “Not anymore.”

The game had begun.

It took half an hour to reel him in, though he thought he was the one in control. He leaned closer, brushed his fingers against my wrist, let his gaze linger on my lips.

He wanted to take me home. He thought this was fate. A woman appearing from nowhere, slipping seamlessly into his life, into his night.

I let him believe it.

I let him walk me out of the club, his hand warm against my lower back, his voice low and promising. I let him lead me toward the waiting car.

And just as he reached for the door handle, I turned to face him.

For the first time that night, I let the mask slip.

His brow furrowed. “Something wrong?”

I smiled, but this time it wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t coy.

It was the smile of a predator.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” I murmured.

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

I leaned in, close enough for my lips to brush against his ear as I whispered the name he had tried to forget.

His whole body went rigid.

Recognition. Fear.

For the first time, Nick Romero wasn’t in control.

And I was just getting started.