FLOWER BOMB | PREQUEL TO THE HONEY TRAP
The bass in the club was loud enough to shake a soul out of its body. Beyoncé adjusted her heels, pulled her honey blonde curls over her shoulder, and stepped on stage like she was walking into war. But her eyes never left the corner booth where a man in a black Montclair coat sat, sipping D'usse like he owned time.
He didn't smile. Didn't wink. Didn't throw money.
He just watched.
And somehow, that unnerved her more than anything else.