Lucia Isabelle Katvia did not believe in love at first sight.
She believed in good lighting.
And good posture.
The club was loud in the way expensive places always were: music calibrated to sound reckless without actually becoming dangerous, bass reverberated in tune with her heartbeat, and men who leaned in too close when they spoke. Lucia let it all wash over, chin tilted, drink untouched in her hand.
She smiled when someone smiled at her. She laughed when it was expected. She left before anyone could mistake her presence for permission.
From the outside, she looked exactly like what people assumed she was: young, beautiful, born into more money than she could ever spend, dressed like she didn't care because she never had to. But inside, she was counting exits.
Not because she felt unsafe, not at all, as she had never felt like that a day in her life, but because she was restless in a way she couldn't name. Rooms like this always promised something like desire, attention, or a story to tell later. And every time, they delivered the same thing instead:
Nothing.
Lucia downed the drink in her hand and set it aside on a near table before walking off. She left the club alone. Not because no one asked. Not because the night had failed.
But because she chose to.
The music was still pounding when she slipped her clutch under her arm and threaded her way through the crowd. A few heads turned, some discreetly and some openly. Someone tried to touch her elbow while she pulled away and another drunk person called something after her. She did not look back.
Outside, the night air was cool and sharp, a clean contrast to the sweat and perfumed air she left behind. The driver inclined his head and opened the door to the back seat. She slid into the seat and closed the door herself.
The city lights blurred past the window, familiar and distant all at once. She leaned her head against the glass, watching reflections of neon fracture and disappear. Inside the club, she had laughed easily, danced without inhibition, and let strangers orbit her for the pleasure of being seen. It was a kind of sport: attention as currency and desire as noise. She knew how to provoke it. She enjoyed the control of it.
And yet.
There was always this moment, at the end of the night, when the stimulation drained away and left something quieter behind. Not quite loneliness; she had never been lonely in the way people liked to dramatize. This was close to restlessness. Like tapping a glass and realizing it was already full.
She checked her phone. No missed calls. No messages. No notifications that required her response. The driver asked if she was heading home.
"Yes," she said. Then, after a pause, added, "My parents' place."
The car turned smoothly, taking an exit, toward a long road with gates on the other side that opened without needing to be announced.
It was past midnight when Lucia stepped into the foyer of the house she had grown up in. The lights were dimmed, but not off. Warm lights from lamps glowed in a cozy manner. Someone had taken the trouble to leave the space welcoming, as if anticipating her return without being told. Her heels echoed softly against stone as she crossed the floor.
Her mother was waiting.
She sat on one of the upholstered chairs near the windows, legs crossed, a book resting unread on her lap. She looked up as Lucia entered, her expression calm rather than reproachful.
"You're home late," her mother said.
Lucia shrugged lightly, slipping out of her heels and setting them neatly aside. "Saturday."
"Yes," her mother agreed. "It is."