Chapter 2: Club Betrayal

So hot.

The faint whir of my desk fan barely cut through the sticky air, and outside, the city hummed with the distant blare of car horns and cicadas. The air in my room felt thick and heavy, as if the summer heat had seeped into my bones, the AC unit rattling uselessly in the window. Sweat slicked my forehead, and every breath came shallow and fast.

My fingers fumbled at the buttons of my shirt, trembling. I could barely see straight, embarrassment and desperation tangling in my mind as I tried not to cry harder.

They slipped over the tiny plastic buttons, too clumsy to do more than tug at the fabric. Each failed attempt made my cheeks burn with shame, frustration mixing with the heat inside me until I wanted to scream.

What was worse was the burning ache inside me, impossible to ignore.

It was like fire licking up my spine, a constant, throbbing need that wouldn’t let me rest. I pressed my thighs together, desperate for relief, but it was no use.

I never thought my first heat as a succubus would be this overwhelming.

All the stories made it sound almost romantic, like something out of a Sarah J. Maas novel or a dreamy Netflix rom-com. No one ever mentioned how raw and consuming it would be, how it’d leave you feeling desperate and out of control.

Waves of need kept crashing over me, again and again.

Every time I thought I could get a grip, another wave hit, stronger than the last. My body was at war with my mind, and I was losing—badly.

Three minutes ago, I’d texted my childhood friend with shaking hands and tears in my eyes:

[Ryan Torres, my heat started. Can u... help me? 😳]

The message sat there, blue bubble against the dark iMessage background, taunting me. I almost deleted it, but I was too far gone to care about pride.

I knew that whoever a succubus gave her first heat to would be her only partner for life.

It was a rule as old as the stories themselves—a secret, sacred thing. My mom had warned me, once, in a hushed voice late at night. I never thought it’d actually matter until now.

I didn’t like the fiancé my parents had picked for me at all.

The whole thing felt like some outdated family tradition, the kind you’d expect in a YA adaptation of The Notebook, not in real life. But here I was, caught up in it anyway.

He was cold and distant, like some untouchable prince from a gothic mansion—everyone kept their distance, like he was a snake or a scorpion.

Matthew Sinclair was the kind of guy you saw across a crowded room and thought, "He’s way out of my league." He barely spoke, always kept his distance, and moved through the world like nothing could touch him.

Just thinking about spending my life with him made me want to run.

It was like picturing myself trapped behind glass, always on display but never really seen. The idea of forever with someone so remote was suffocating.

So I started dating Ryan, hoping Matthew Sinclair would break off the engagement on his own.

It was a dumb plan, but it was the only rebellion I had. I figured if I flaunted Ryan enough, Matthew would get fed up and let me go. But he never did.

Now I was curled up in the corner of my bedroom, legs weak, body trembling as I tried to hold on.

My comforter was a tangled mess, fairy lights flickering weakly above my posters of Billie Eilish and faded Polaroids. I pressed my forehead to my knees, whispering desperate prayers to no one in particular.

Finally, Ryan replied: "Come find me."

His message was short, almost flippant. But it was enough. I clung to it like a lifeline, even as something in my gut twisted with dread.

Almost on autopilot, I stumbled out and caught an Uber to the club he liked to haunt downtown.

The city lights blurred past the rain-streaked window. The driver didn’t ask questions—just turned up the Top 40 station, letting the bass thump fill the silence. My hands shook the whole ride there.