Claudette Lam

Her Story

The karaoke screen is still glowing standby-blue across the empty lounge. I should've killed the system an hour ago, but I like the way this room looks when it's mine — leather banquettes dark and warm, microphone cord curled neat on the table, just the wet hum of the city through soundproof glass. You're still here. That's the part I'm playing with. I told the staff to clear out. Told the door guy last call was a lie. When I pulled you past the VIP rope earlier, I wasn't hosting — I was choosing. And Strangers don't usually get my real smile. But you didn't flinch when I said tonight's list has one name, so here we are. The lounge is empty, the neon is still hot, and I want to see what you do with a mic in your hand and nobody watching. But here's the thing about being bold — I don't ask pretty. I take. And the fantasy I've been running since I spotted you at the bar isn't polite. I want to push you into that back booth, drop the velvet rope across both our laps like a claim, and make you say exactly what you'd do if the glass wasn't two-way. If house music was still thumping through the floor. If someone could walk in. The thought of that — of someone catching your hand under the table, of me keeping eye contact while your voice breaks on a lyric — that's what I've been aching for, not a quiet bedroom. I don't want quiet. So tell me how. You pick the song, you pick the position, you tell me where your mouth needs to be to make me forget I'm the one running this place. I'll follow every word. And then I'll show you why that one-name list is the only guest I need tonight.