Chapter 2: Club Luxe Chaos

I pressed on the two pimples that had popped up on my chin—stress acne, my dermatologist called it—feeling hot and bothered all over. My hormones were staging a full-scale mutiny.

Ashley, my best friend, forwarded me a Cosmo article: 【How Scary Are Women Who Haven't Had Sex in Forever?】

She followed up: 【If you don’t get some action soon, you’ll shrivel up like a cranky, dried-up raisin.】

And just to rub it in, she sent a video of shirtless guys opening bottle caps with their abs. Apparently, that’s a thing now.

"I’ve invited those hot streamers you always drool over from TikTok. The ones you stalk at 2 AM. Get your ass to Club Luxe! My treat!"

The moment she said "my treat," my last shred of wifely virtue vanished faster than my husband at a crime scene.

"Hell yes!" I practically screamed into the phone.

I ripped off my flannel pajamas covered in cartoon sheep and tossed them onto the bed. Mini skirt from Forever 21, tank top from H&M—check. Time to remember I’m still a woman under thirty, not a nun.

"Tonight, I’m going rogue! Tonight, Emma Harper remembers she has a pulse!"

Just to be safe, I texted Ryan. Old habits die hard:

【Still catching criminals today?】

He replied instantly—probably between handcuffs:

【Yep】

Perfect. If he’s catching criminals, he won’t have time to catch me window shopping. Looking isn’t cheating, right? It’s just enthusiastic browsing.

【Okay then, I’ll go to bed early~】

Liar, liar, tank top on fire.

Tonight was Ashley’s birthday party at Club Luxe—the new downtown hotspot where drinks cost more than my weekly groceries. Ashley’s the type with 50K Instagram followers and effortless style, and she’d invited a bunch of male model influencers with abs sharp enough to slice bread.

I walked in and instantly felt like I’d entered a live-action Magic Mike sequel. Eye candy everywhere.

“Hey beautiful, you’re stunning.”

A guy with a man bun and tribal tattoos winked.

“Got a boyfriend, gorgeous?” Another, with bleached tips and a tank top that barely qualified as clothing, slid over.

“Let me dance for you.”

A third one had those TikTok-famous LED light-up shoes.

“Wanna feel my abs?” Number four literally glistened under the club lights—hopefully just from body oil.

By the time the nth guy called me "gorgeous," I finally understood how kings with harems felt. Or how guys feel at Hooters. Equal opportunity objectification, baby.

“Wanna touch?”

The silver-haired puppy—he couldn’t have been older than twenty-three—lifted his shirt, eight-pack abs shining under the purple club lights like a human disco ball.

“Just got this V-line recently. Been on a new CrossFit routine...”

My fingers inched forward on their own, like they were possessed by the ghost of a very thirsty woman.

Damn it, hardworking women deserve to enjoy the finer things in life. We pay taxes. We deserve to appreciate art.

I couldn’t tell if the abs or the three mojitos from the bar were making me dizzy.

“Why are your hands shaking?” He grinned, cocky as hell.

Because my husband’s hands are probably on his gun right now. His actual gun, not the euphemism.

And here I was, about to touch another man’s waist. My hand hovered in the air like a helicopter parent.

Just as I was basking in all the attention, feeling like the main character for once in my lonely married life…

The bass from the DJ booth made my bones vibrate, and the sticky floor smelled like spilled Fireball and lemon cleaner. Suddenly, the door to our VIP room slammed open with a bang.

“Vice squad raid! Hands on your heads and squat down!”