As the door clicked shut, Agatha stared. Her jaw was tight, but her eyes were molten.

“No,” Agatha breathed, leaning across the table. Her hand caught Eve’s wrist. “I won. Because you just proved my point.”

But Eve didn’t move. She simply turned her head, caught the stranger’s eye, and offered a small, vulnerable smile—the kind that hinted at a secret. Then she looked away, down at her drink, as if embarrassed to have been caught looking.

Agatha’s smirk faltered.

The amber glow of the penthouse bar reflected off two highball glasses. Eve Sweet swirled her drink, the ice clinking a soft, deliberate rhythm. Across from her, Agatha Vega leaned back in the leather chair, a portrait of smoldering confidence. The air between them wasn't just charged; it was a live wire.

Wagered Affection

Eve Sweet, Agatha Vega