She lit a cigarette with hands too steady for someone about to cross a line. Smoke curled around her like a lover’s arms—tight, possessive, knowing. Someone was watching her; she felt it like a second skin. The kind of gaze that didn’t just want her—it wanted to possess her, break her open, see what was buried beneath all that confidence and red lipstick. She smiled anyway, a slow, wicked thing. Let them watch. Let them follow. She was used to being the flame. Men burned for her, and she rarely minded the scorch.