Losing Control

The May humidity in coastal Boston had a way of stripping away a person’s civilized manners before noon, but Scarlett Vance’s Saturday began with three violent, brain-rattling sneezes that left her staring at the ceiling in complete disorientation.

Her phone chimed against the nightstand with an urgent work ping. Groaning, she rolled out of bed, navigated the hallway on autopilot, and dragged herself through the motions of brushing, washing, and beating her face into submission. A liberal halo of perfume later, she reached for her bag at the front door—only to find Finny perched squarely on top of the leather straps.

Finny was a short-haired terror with an attitude problem.

"Move it," Scarlett warned, waving a hand. "The Earth doesn't pause its orbit just because you’re sitting there."

The cat responded by sinking his teeth into her designer strap and attempting to burrow his entire body into the interior compartment.

Scarlett’s eye twitched. "Listen to me, you little menace. It’s ninety degrees on the asphalt. Step outside and the pavement will melt your private parts right off." With a practiced flick of her wrist, she wrenched the bag free and slipped through the door before the animal could stage a retaliatory strike.

She hadn't lied to the cat. Midday in May was genuinely suffocating.

With the artisanal breakfast spots already winding down their morning shifts, Scarlett cut across the brick alleyway into The Vance Heritage Bistro. The aroma of rich roasting jus and dark espresso drifted from the kitchen pass.

"What can I get for you, Miss Scarlett?" the veteran carver behind the marble counter called out, waving his chef's knife in greeting.

"The duck-confit brioche and a double espresso to go, please, Donald." She tapped her card on the terminal. The kitchen moved with seamless precision—a flash of toasted brioche, the rhythmic thump-thump of the cleaver slicing through succulent, crispy-skinned poultry, and her insulated box was ready in three minutes flat.

Grabbing her food, she made a brief detour to the corner Circle K for a five-dollar scratch-off lottery ticket, then steered her yellow Audi TT onto the expressway.

Weekend traffic was relatively light, and she pulled into the glass-and-steel headquarters of Aegis MedTech Global in twenty minutes. But the moment the third-floor elevator doors slid open, she nearly collided with Corinne Becker, who was precariously balanced in a squat on the polished floor.

"Whoa! Watch out!" Scarlett lunged forward, catching the pregnant woman beneath both elbows.

"I’m okay, I’m okay," Corinne panted, pressing a trembling hand against the small of her back. At nearly thirty-four weeks along, simply bending down looked like an extreme sport.

Scarlett felt her own heart spike into her throat. "What on earth are you doing on the carpet?"

"My bracelet broke. The beads scattered everywhere."

"Stand still and stay upright. I'll get them." Muttering a stream of complaints under her breath, Scarlett dropped into a flawless squat, her sharp acrylic nails clicking against the tile as she swept the remaining dark wooden beads into a neat pile. "Here. Want me to string them back together for you?"

"No, I’m pregnant, not geriatric." Corinne took the beads with an exhausted laugh. "What brought you in today?"

"Admin flagged a shattered tabletop on the executive floor. Came to inspect the damage."

"Ah, right. The new Procurement VP’s corner suite." Corinne led the way down the quiet corridor, gesturing toward the executive office where the tempered glass coffee table had mysteriously fractured into a spiderweb of cracks.

Seeing Scarlett step close to examine the fissures, Corinne warned, "Careful. Don’t let a loose shard pop into your eye."

"It’s reinforced safety glass; it won’t explode outward." Scarlett snapped three clear photos on her phone, fired off an email to the facilities vendor, and dialed the representative directly.

"How's it look?" Corinne asked.

"They're dispatching a replacement crew now." Scarlett scratched the bridge of her nose, eyeing the empty desk. "Why are you clocking weekend hours?"

"Just earning some extra diaper money," Corinne groaned, sinking into the armchair with a heavy breath. "Our new VP drops in on Monday. As his designated HRBP, I need every personnel dossier and performance metric scrubbed clean so I don't get ambushed during his first briefing."

"Right." Scarlett placed the warm brioche on the edge of the mahogany desk. "Hungry?"

Corinne wasn't starving, but the scent of rich duck confit proved impossible to resist. The moment she finished a bite, her belly visibly shifted under her knit dress.

Scarlett tracked the movement with wide eyes. "Baby kicking?"

"Definitely kicking." Corinne smiled, smoothing her palm over the mound. "You know a surprising amount about pregnancy."

"My sister-in-law is due soon, further along than you." The warm sandwich had left her slightly flushed, so Scarlett gathered her dark, wavy hair with a scrunchie, twisting it into a gloriously chaotic topknot. "I've felt her stomach. Her kid moves like an MMA fighter—throwing jabs and hooks in there 24/7."

"Sounds like a boy." Corinne rubbed her stomach, then dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "So... is this hotshot Procurement VP staying in the executive apartments on Harbor Drive?"

"Couldn't tell you." Scarlett licked a crumb from her thumb, retrieved the scratch-off ticket from her tote, and grabbed a metal binder clip from the desk organizer to scrape away the silver coating.

"Any luck?" Corinne leaned in with genuine curiosity.

"Hold on." Scarlett cross-referenced the numbers down the grid. "Zero. Not a single cent." She flicked the spent ticket into the trash can with practiced nonchalance.

Five dollars down the drain. Corinne shook her head; she knew Scarlett bought these religiously but had never heard of her winning anything substantial. "What's the appeal?"

"It’s a five-dollar retirement fantasy," Scarlett declared, spinning in the executive ergonomic chair behind the desk. "You wouldn't understand." Feeling the casters beneath the chair stick stubbornly against the carpet, she was about to bend down to inspect the wheels when her phone rang. The vendor was downstairs at the loading dock with the new glass.

Efficient enough. She headed down to oversee the installation, and by the time the suite was restored to executive perfection, twilight had settled over the harbor.

Leaving the floor, she saw Corinne still hunched over her laptop. Scarlett stepped over and snapped her fingers with a crisp, echoing crack. "Ready to call it? I can drop you home."

Corinne shook her head with a tired smile. "My husband's pulling up downstairs." She glanced at Scarlett’s outfit. "Where are you off to?"

"A club opening." Scarlett fished a strawberry lozenge from her purse, tossed it into her mouth, and offered a spare. "I'm out. Later, mama~"

"Drive safe." Corinne watched Scarlett sling her designer bag over her shoulder and strut toward the elevators on bare, endless legs. Two male engineers staying late in the adjacent cubicles practically gave themselves whiplash turning to watch her leave.

Some people were born to command a room without ever clearing their throat; the sheer, unapologetic confidence radiated from every pore.

By eight o’clock, the evening traffic out of Midtown had thickened. Scarlett’s hands-free system piped Chloe Foster’s frantic voice through the car speakers: "Where are you?"

"Passing the Grand Central Esplanade. Five minutes out."

"Wait, scratch that! It’s not the Midtown lounge—Derek moved the VIP room to the Riverdale location. Flip around and head south!"

"Are you out of your mind? Falling in love has completely rotted your brain," Scarlett barked into the mic. She checked her side mirror, saw she was still on the dashed line, flicked on her left turn signal, and stuck her arm out the driver-side window, giving two sharp waves.

The light shifted to green. Directly behind her, a sleek, charcoal-grey Volvo eased back with understated courtesy, creating a generous gap for her yellow coupe.

Scarlett slipped smoothly into the lane, popped her hand out once more to give a swift thumbs-up of gratitude, and caught a fleeting glimpse of the male driver through his tinted windshield. Tall posture, crisp silhouette, dark hair.

Thirty minutes later, she pulled up to The 13th Vault.

She checked her rearview mirror, refreshed her crimson lipstick, peeled off her denim jacket, and secured her sheer over-the-knee stockings and leather thigh garter. Popping another lozenge between her teeth, she pushed through the heavy brass doors.

The renovated underground venue looked like an eighties fever dream—neon webs of purple and electric blue tracing the exposed brick corridors.

Tonight was their grand opening, and Derek had reserved the premier VIP lounge. The bass was already vibrating through the floorboards when Scarlett pushed through the velvet curtains. Chloe was standing front and center before the widescreen display, her hips swaying to a high-pitched retro dance cover, totally leaning into the trashy-chic aesthetic of the room.

Scarlett set her bag on a side table and blinked rapidly against a sudden scratch in her eye. "Chloe, check this for me. My eyelash is stabbing my retina."

Chloe bounded over, but her coordination was notoriously rough. She immediately yanked Scarlett’s upper lid back with blunt fingers.

Scarlett’s color-contact lens nearly popped free under the assault. "You absolute psycho! Gentle!" she hissed, flinching from the pain.

"Don't move, let me blow on it." Chloe took a deep breath and puffed a gust of air directly into Scarlett’s face. Scarlett blinked wildly—and this time, the right contact popped right out of her eye and vanished onto the floor, leaving her right-side vision a blurry, soft-focus smudge.

As the two of them squawked by the screen, the track shifted. Chloe thrust a spare microphone into Scarlett’s hands. "Quick, quick! This is your jam!"

A heavy drum-machine beat kicked in. On the retro laser-disc screen, the vintage neon logo flashed, cutting to footage of eighties models in neon swimwear dancing by a pool.

The synth-heavy bassline of Liar in the Shadows was instantly infectious. Even half-blind, the lyrics were pure muscle memory for Scarlett.

"Tell me sweet lies, look in my eyes..." She caught the mic and belted into the room, her voice dropping into a rich, sultry lower register that cut clean through the synthesized rhythm.

It was an unapologetically tacky, dramatic disco anthem—the kind of song best sung with total abandon.

The two women held their mics, swaying and rolling their hips to the heavy downbeat. Chloe eyed Scarlett’s backless knit dress and the dark leather garter hugging her thigh. "Look at you, full-on siren mode tonight. Who are you planning to wrap those legs around?"

"Whoever looks good enough to deserve them," Scarlett shot back, pressing the lozenge beneath her tongue.

During the instrumental bridge, Chloe reached over and boldly slapped Scarlett’s backside. "Have you been doing squats?"

"Do I look like I need squats?" Scarlett flipped her dark curls over her shoulder, completely unbothered. "This curve is pure, unadulterated genetics."

Chloe rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw her own brain. "Would it kill you to be humble for five seconds?" She leaned in, tapping Scarlett’s shoulder. "Model my new lingerie set next week. No face shots, just the hips."

"Keep dreaming." Scarlett flashed her a sharp, teasing smirk. "Do I look like cheap labor to you?"

The synth chorus surged back in, and Scarlett brought the mic back to her lips, tilting her head back as her hips traced a fluid, dangerous figure-eight in time with the drums.

The strobe lights flickered between magenta shadows and bright white flashes, washing the room in a heavy, dopamine-soaked haze. Scarlett let her body take over, executing a slow, deliberate roll of her pelvis.

Mid-sway, her vision drifted across the room—and locked onto a man sitting in the elevated velvet booth in the far corner.

He was wearing wire-rimmed glasses, sitting with unshakeable, aristocratic posture against the dark cushions, his dark eyes staring directly at her through the haze.

Feeling the weight of his clinical appraisal, Scarlett narrowed her functional left eye, trying to decipher his expression through the strobe light. Two words practically leaped across the air and branded themselves onto her forehead:

Pretentious. Fake.

An instant wave of profound irritation washed over Scarlett. Her gaze dropped to his hands, where she spotted a strand of dark, carved prayer beads slowly rotating between his long, pale fingers.

Unbelievable, she thought, her lips curving into a sneer behind the microphone.

A stiff, thirty-something executive playing with meditation beads in a nightclub. Guaranteed he was a three-inch trust-fund wonder who spent his weekends listening to classical records just to feel superior to the rest of the world.

She held his gaze for one defiant, mocking second, threw her head back, and hit the high note of the chorus with everything she had.

Julian Sterling felt the hostility radiating from the dance floor as clearly as if she had thrown a drink in his face.

He didn't take it personally. He had stared a beat too long while she was belting out that retro synth-pop chorus, and a woman like that—sharp, combustible, and entirely aware of her own magnetism—was naturally going to register his clinical appraisal as an offense.

He let the dark beads rotate once more through his fingers out of pure muscle memory before handing the strand back to Derek Miller.

"Take a look at the focal bead for me," Derek said, shouting over the booming bass line as he gestured toward the red jasper carving. "Bought it off an estate collector last week. Supposed to be authentic antique."

Julian held it up to the ambient amber light of the booth, his thumb tracing the fine contours of the stone. "It’s genuine red jasper. Untreated raw mineral, and the carving work is remarkably clean. The facial lines on the cameo are flawl