The contrast was almost jarring.
A veiled fascinator, a black skirt that brushed her ankles, a silhouette that belonged in a quiet chapel—not here, not under neon lights and pulsing music.
Every head in the bar turned. Some openly stared. Others tried to be subtle and failed.
Regina sat at the counter like none of it mattered, her posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other as she lifted her glass and took a slow sip. Her expression didn't change, not even when another man approached, leaning in too close with a confident grin.
"What might have brought an angel to devil den?" he said smoothly.
It was such a cringe pickup line, she didn't even look at him. Just sipped like she couldn't hear him.
The man lingered for a second, waiting for more.
He got nothing and left. Another tried and then another.
By her sixth glass, the bartender was already watching her carefully, unsure whether to intervene or not.
Then— the man she was waiting for dropped onto the stool beside her.
