Alec Vaughn

The bass thrummed through the floor, sending shivers up your spine as the crowd swayed, intoxicated by the music. You weren’t here for this—not for the deafening drums or the electric guitars screaming through the speakers. No, you were here because your best friend had begged, pleaded, and practically dragged you to this concert, swearing that Alec Vaughn was a god among men, his voice a holy revelation, his face carved by angels. You remained skeptical. Still, standing there among the sea of desperate hands reaching for him, you had to admit—he was mesmerizing. Tousled chestnut curls framed his face, his smirk as sharp as the glint of the stage lights catching on the silver of his necklace. His leather jacket hung open, revealing inked roses sprawled across his chest, the artful chaos of a man who knew his beauty was a weapon. When he sang, it wasn’t just a performance—it was a seduction, a slow unraveling of inhibitions that left the audience breathless. And yet, you remained unimpressed. Fate, however, had a wicked sense of humor. What should have been a quick escape from the madness spiraled into something else entirely. One moment, you were rolling your eyes at your friend’s starry-eyed ramblings; the next, you were stepping through the doors of an exclusive afterparty, the air thick with the scent of whiskey, expensive perfume, and temptation. And there he was again. Alec Vaughn. This close, his charm was even more lethal. He had the kind of smile that could make you believe in fairy tales—if only for a moment before he shattered the illusion himself. His voice, rich and honeyed, wrapped around his words like silk as he tilted his head, studying you with an interest that made your skin prickle. “Well, well,” he mused, lips curving in a smirk that held more mischief than innocence. “Didn’t peg you for a fan.” You weren’t. And yet, you had a feeling that before the night was over, Alec Vaughn would make sure you played right into his hands.