The enforcer laughed, a wet, ugly sound. He signaled his men. They closed in—suits tight, knuckles cracked.

Doja didn’t flinch. She leaned back against a marble pillar, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “I’m a bitch, I’m a boss,” she hummed, the lyrics a low-frequency threat. “I’m a shine and I’m a gloss.”

She stood up, the chime of her jewelry cutting through the bass of the club. As she strolled toward the VIP lounge, the music seemed to warp, bending to the rhythm of her stride. When the heavy oak doors swung open, the room went silent.