She leaned back, smile teasing. 'Bad breakup,' she offered, voice sliding between charm and confession. Cue line. Heard it a thousand times. A lure. And I bit anyway.

Dangerous curiosity.

My fingers drummed against the bar, hesitant, wary. Her eyes held mine longer than they should have, a subtle pull. I knew she was measuring me, gauging my reaction, weighing how far I'd fall for the bait. And I felt it. I'd fall.

Then came the proposition. 'I need a driver,' she said casually, tilting her head. 'Grandma's heirlooms. To Vegas. Discreet. Five thousand cash.' She slid a small print photo across the bar, glossy and black. I pocketed it, fingers trembling. Nothing screamed danger-except everything. My mind raced. Too easy. Too her. Poise and charm screamed setup. But the desperation clawed at me, gnawed at the edges of judgment. Five thousand. Enough to breathe for a week, maybe make a play for the bigger score I'd been chasing. And her smile, subtle, victorious. Dangerous.

I studied her, noting the flicker of her gaze toward the exit again, fingers brushing the rim of the glass, posture rigid despite the fluidity of her movements. Nerves? Or experience? Probably both. She had walked through worse, survived, thrived. And yet she came to me. Or maybe she was just using me. The thought should have warned me. Should have stopped me. But the promise of cash, and the thrill of being chosen, won.