Only Angel 2 [h.s] AU

The velvet trap

⚠️  TRIGGER WARNING  ⚠️

Beau
New York.

I hadn't slept more than four hours a night in two weeks.

My desk looked like a war zone — drafts, layouts, photo selects, sticky notes that all blurred into the same shade of panic. The feature with Harry had gone viral, sure. But now they expected magic every time I touched a sentence. Like I'd stumbled into greatness by accident.

Newbie luck, I heard one of them mutter by the water cooler.

They don't say it to my face. They don't need to.

Every day, the pressure coils tighter — every headline, every deadline, every editor's passive-aggressive Slack message. I barely remembered the last time I wore something that wasn't work-adjacent. The last time I saw the sky.

I'd even stopped answering Darien's texts.

So when she showed up at my apartment uninvited — iced coffee in hand, sunglasses still on — I knew it wasn't a suggestion.

"Put on something slutty. You're coming out."

"I have a deadline," I murmured without looking up.

"You have eye bags and undiagnosed burnout. You need alcohol and attention."

I scoffed, half-offended. "Wow. You really said 'attention' like I'm some emotionally unstable house cat."

"You are an emotionally unstable house cat," she shot back, kicking my swivel chair with the toe of her boot. "One that hasn't seen sunlight in two weeks."

I glared, but I wasn't really mad. She wasn't wrong. My legs were stiff from sitting too long. My brain had been fried for days. And the last time I tried to flirt with someone, it was with a barista — about oat milk.

"Wear something that'll make Colson comp your drinks," Darien added, casually sipping my coffee like it was hers now.

I sighed dramatically, pushing back from the desk. "Fine. But if I flash a nipple tonight, it's on your conscience."

By the time we pulled up to Uptown74, the sidewalk was already a slow-moving disaster of stilettos and perfume. The line stretched around the block, people pretending not to care that they were waiting in the humid New York air for a glimpse of someone more interesting than themselves.

Darien didn't wait in lines.

She slid past the velvet rope with a quick nod to the bouncer, her hand looped through mine. I followed, like I always did when she was like this — electric, invincible, high on the thrill of a night out.

Inside, the music was already too loud.

The kind that thumped through your chest like a second heartbeat, the kind that made it impossible to hear yourself think — which was, to be fair, the point.

The main floor was packed. Girls in tight dresses with rhinestones under their eyes, guys pretending not to stare too hard. Laughter that was too loud. Phones flashing constantly. A constant push and pull of movement.

"Upstairs," Darien said in my ear, already tugging me toward the stairs to the loft.

The upstairs was even worse — or better, depending on your goals for the night. Darker, hotter. Lit by LED strips and money. Colson's crew was easy to spot, sunk deep into the couch like they owned the place. Which, technically, he did.

"Beau!" Colson stood when he saw me, arms out, chain catching the light. He looked like trouble dipped in cologne and casual chaos.

I gave him a half-smile. "Colson."