Chapter 7 Jealousy

At the Majestic Club, Brixton

The bass hit like a heartbeat, the lights pulsed, and the bodies moved like waves. Shopia took her first sip of a cold drink, something fruity, something careless and let the music fill her bones.

Her hips swayed, hair brushing her shoulders, heartbeat syncing to the rhythm. Someone brushed past, a compliment whispered, a smile offered but she didn’t bite.

“Come on, Shopia, shake your body!” Emilia shouted, already spinning under the lights, hair flying like she owned the night.

Shopia laughed, a breathless sound that tasted too close to relief and heartbreak at once. She lifted her arms, letting the beat pulse through her veins. The room smelled of perfume, sweat and neon dreams.

She closed her eyes again. Alex’s voice wouldn’t stop replaying. She forced the memory out, hips rolling with the beat, body surrendering to the music. People danced around her. For a moment, she felt weightless.

A hand brushed her waist from a guy with messy curls and a smile too eager.

“You look like you’re trying to outrun someone,” he shouted above the music.

“Maybe I am.” Shopia smiled faintly.

“Tell him he’s crazy for letting you walk away,” he smirked.

Her breath caught, she didn’t respond. Instead, she danced away from him, deeper into the crowd, where the lights flashed golden, purple, blue.

Emilia followed, laughing breathlessly.

“You look like a goddess tonight! Whoever broke your heart, his loss.”

Shopia forced a smile, but the words pierced. His loss. Was it? Or was she the foolish one for letting herself feel something for a man who belonged to a world she’d never touch again?

No. Stop. Stop thinking about him.

The DJ changed the song, darker and heavier, like a heartbeat with teeth. Shopia swayed, slower now, her body moving on instinct. Her eyes fluttered open and her phone buzzed in her bag.

She ignored it. Then it buzzed again and again. She exhaled sharply and finally pulled it out.

Alex Maxwell calling

The world seemed to tilt. Her chest tightened. The club noise drowned under the rush of her pulse. Her fingers trembled around the glowing screen.

“Are you going to answer?” Emilia asked, catching the name.

Shopia didn’t speak. The phone kept ringing. She swallowed hard. Her thumb hovered over Decline.

“Don’t, not tonight.” Emilia said softly, resting a hand on her arm.

Shopia hesitated too long and the call ended. Seconds later, a message appeared.

“Please. I just want to talk.”

Her throat tightened. She typed nothing and locked the phone. Shoved it back in her purse like it had teeth. And then she did the only ting she could do, she let the music swallow her again, throwing herself into motion, letting sweat and rhythm wash the pain out.

Shopia dragged Emilia back onto the dance floor, arms raised, hair whipping, forcing a smile she didn’t feel. Sweat shimmered on her collarbones, lights painted her skin violet, then red, then gold like the universe couldn't decide what she was tonight.

Don’t think. Just move.

Bodies brushed past. Drinks clinked. Someone whistled. But it all sounded like she was underwater.Her heartbeat was louder than the music. Her mind even louder.mShe tried to shake it off, hips cutting through rhythm, but she kept tasting the morning on her lips

Across town, a tower of quiet wealth watched the city breathe. Alex stood by his window, tie undone, jacket discarded, staring at the skyline like he could pull her out of it if he stared hard enough. Phone in hand, unread message icon glaring back at him.

He dragged a hand over his face.

“Idiot…” He almost went to her. Keys were in his hand once.

He wasn’t sure if seeing her with someone else would make him want to apologize or destroy every man in the room. His phone lit again. A new number this time, his assistant.

PARIS itinerary sent. Need signatures tonight.

He almost laughed. He was Alex Maxwell, the man who handled billion-pound deals without losing sleep. Now he couldn’t handle one girl with trembling fingers and soft morning eyes. And for the first time in years maybe ever  he felt powerless.

Shopia took another drink. It burned down her throat and settled like fire in her chest. Emilia’s eyes narrowed.

“You okay?” Shopia lifted her chin, stubborn.

“I’m great.”

Her phone buzzed again against her thigh. She froze, she Ignoring it was its own form of torture.

“You can dance yourself numb, babe, but feelings don’t drown that easy.” Emilia saw the pain and sighed.

“I don’t have feelings,” Shopia lied.

“Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.” Emilia arched a brow.

Shopia barked a laugh, brittle, aching, desperate. She didn’t want to need him. She didn’t want to think about him. But every beat felt like him. Every inhale tasted like him and every second she didn't answer him built into something unbearable.

She shut her eyes, body swaying, heart begging for distraction. Then someone’s hands slid politely to her hips as a stranger leaned in.

“Dance with me?”

She opened her eyes. A decent guy with harming smile.

Emilia mouthed, “Do it.”

Shopia hesitated, then her phone buzzed again. One new voicemail from Alex Maxwell

Shopia stared at the voicemail notification glowing like a bruise on her screen.

Her pulse skipped, stuttered, then thundered. She could have tapped it and  listened.

But her thumb brushed delete instead a reckless act of self defenseand she shoved the phone back into her purse before her heart could protest.

“Dance with me?” the stranger repeated, hand still warm on her hip.

Shopia swallowed, she forced a smile.

“Yeah. Let’s dance.”

He grinned and pulled her closer. Not too close. Just enough. His hands were respectful, his rhythm confident, his scent clean like mint and cedar. The stranger spun her and laughed, mismatched to her hollow pulse. Shopia’s hair whipped, her dress clung to her skin, the room swirled in neon stars.

In other side, Alex’s penthouse felt suffocating. Lights of London glittered beneath him, but his mind was still in a dim club, imagining her hurting, angry, thinking he didn’t care.

He checked his phone again, still nothing. He shouldn’t go, he knew that.

A plane to Paris in 36 hours. Walking away would be smart, but logic shattered the moment he pictured her dancing in someone else’s arms. He grabbed his coat.

You opened this door, something inside whispered. Go see if there’s anything left to close it.

And he walked out.

Shopia let the stranger spin her again, laughter getting stuck halfway up her throat. She arched her neck, breathing hard, trying to get lost in the lights, in the music, in anything that wasn’t him.

“Can I buy you a drink?” the stranger asked, leaning close so she could hear.

Before she could answer, Emilia grabbed her wrist.

“Soph…”

Shopia turned and froze.

Alex stood near the entrance of the club, scanning the crowd, breath sharp, hair messy like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. He looked completely out of place yet painfully real with expensive coat, jaw clenched, desperation simmering beneath polished control. Eyes frantic until they found her.

And when they did, the whole world paused. His gaze fell to the stranger’s hands on her waist.

The stranger noticed him and leaned closer, oblivious.

“You okay?” he asked Shopia.

Shopia couldn’t speak. Her lips parted, no sound. Alex didn’t move also didn’t blink.

Alex froze across the room, chest rising and falling like the air had suddenly turned to fire.

Shopia still held his gaze like she was daring him to move, daring him to breathe, daring him to feel the consequences of walking into her life and twisting everything.

Her heart pounded painfully, her breath shaky. Then she did the worst thing she could think of.

She turned to the stranger, grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him.

“Kiss me…”

**