Double Deception

Chapter 6: The Nightclub Encounter

 

A week passed in silence.

No messages. No calls. Just that last text echoing in my mind — Be careful what you find.

I tried to tell myself it was over, that the mystery of Emma—of Emily—was something I could shelve for a while. But silence doesn't bring peace; it amplifies the noise already inside your head. Every unanswered question became a constant hum beneath my thoughts.

Emily hadn't reached out since the confrontation with her parents. Emma hadn't texted since the night I told her I was done being afraid. Maybe I should have been relieved. Instead, the quiet felt like a warning.

Then, on Friday night, Marcus called.

"Come on, man, you're rotting in that apartment," he said, half-joking, half-concerned. "One night out won't kill you."

I almost refused, but something in his tone — that old brotherly persistence — made me cave. Maybe he was right. Maybe distraction was what I needed.

We ended up at a new nightclub downtown called Halo, the kind of place pulsing with bass so deep it shook the floor. The air smelled of sweat, perfume, and expensive vodka. Neon lights painted everyone in shades of electric blue and crimson.

Marcus disappeared into the crowd within minutes, swallowed by the rhythm of the music and a group of laughing strangers. I stayed at the bar, nursing a whiskey I barely tasted, trying to convince myself I belonged among the living again.

That was when I saw her.

The Sight of Her

Across the dance floor, framed by the strobe lights, stood a woman whose laughter cut through the noise. Her head tilted back, hair tumbling over her shoulders in dark, chaotic waves.

It was her.

Emma.

My chest tightened, my breath catching mid-inhale. I blinked, half-expecting the vision to vanish with the next flicker of light. But she was still there — alive, tangible, magnetic.

She was surrounded by people, their movements orbiting around her like she was the center of gravity itself. She looked radiant, wild, untethered — everything Emily never allowed herself to be.

But it wasn't her presence that froze me. It was the glint of silver around her wrist.

The bracelet.

My bracelet.

The one I'd given Emily for her birthday — a custom piece, etched with her initials on the inside: E.G.H.

No mistaking it. No coincidence.

My hand clenched around the glass. Every instinct screamed that something wasn't right, that I shouldn't approach. But reason had left me weeks ago. I set my drink down and pushed through the mass of moving bodies, the music thrumming like a heartbeat in my ears.

Confrontation in Motion

"Emma!" I shouted above the roar of the bass.

She turned.

For a split second, surprise flickered across her face — real, unmasked surprise — before melting into that familiar, dangerous smile.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite guy," she purred. Her tone dripped with playful defiance, but something in her eyes was sharp, alert.

I swallowed the surge of anger rising in my throat. "What are you doing here?"

She laughed, tossing her hair back. "Having fun. You should try it sometime."