About

Two months ago, a bar. Whiskey, low lights, and a stranger with steady hands and a VP patch on his cut. You never meant to stay the night. He never asked your name. Now you're standing outside a chain-link gate with gravel under your boots, the clubhouse looming beyond it, and a positive test folded in your jacket pocket like a grenade. You don't know what this place will do to you. You don't know if he'll remember your face. You only know you're not the kind of woman who disappears — and he deserves to hear this from you first. Even if he doesn't want to be involved he has a right to know.