I looked at the studio door—the one that wouldn't latch, wouldn't lock. Anyone could walk right in.
Panic clawed up my throat.
No. Not doing this. Not tonight.
I grabbed my bag, pulled the studio door closed—knowing the broken lock meant it wouldn't actually secure—and practically ran down the stairs and out to my car. Locked the doors immediately. Checked the back seat twice before starting the engine.
The drive home took forever. Every set of headlights behind me felt like a threat. Every shadow looked like that figure in the window.
By the time I got to my apartment, my whole body was shaking.
Get it together, Lacey.
I made it inside, threw the deadbolt, checked every window. Pulled the curtains shut. Turned on every light in the small space until it was bright enough to chase away the worst of the fear.
Then I sat on my couch and tried not to fall apart.
Who was it?
The question circled in my mind, picking up speed with every pass.
Boyd.
The name hit me like ice water. My ex had been obsessive—showed up at my work unannounced, drove by my apartment at weird hours, always needing to know where I was and who I was with. When I'd finally left him two years ago, he'd moved to Dallas for a construction job.
But what if he'd come back?
What if he found out about the pole fitness classes and decided I needed him to "protect" me? What if this was his way of checking up on me, making sure I hadn't "moved on" the way he'd accused me of wanting to when I broke up with him?
My stomach twisted.
Or—
My father.
The thought made me feel sick, but I couldn't shake it. Dad had made it clear what he thought of my pole fitness "side hustle." Eight months of silence since that fight at his garage. What if he'd sent someone to spy on me? To prove his point about the kind of men my business attracted?
I hadn't gotten a clear look at the face. Just the silhouette, backlit and featureless. Could've been anyone.
I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them.
You handle your own problems,I reminded myself.You don't need anyone to save you. You've been taking care of yourself for two years.
But God, I was tired. Tired of being scared. Tired of looking over my shoulder.
No woman—noperson—should have to feel like prey. Like something to be claimed and devoured by whatever predator happened to be circling overhead.
Sleep didn't come that night. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, jumping at every sound from the apartment complex. A door slamming down the hall. Footsteps on the stairs. The rattle of the heating vent.
By Saturday morning, I'd made a decision. I wasn't someone's victim waiting to happen. And I didn't need anyone to rescue me.
I drove to the hardware store as soon as it opened and bought a tension rod and blackout curtain. Drove straight to the studioand installed it over the bathroom window. It wasn't perfect—anyone determined enough could still get in—but at least now I could change without being watched.
The anxiety followed me through the rest of Saturday. I tried to distract myself—cleaned my apartment, did laundry, made a grocery run I'd been putting off. Nothing worked.
By the time Saturday evening rolled around and I was driving to the studio for my seven o'clock class, my nerves were shot.
Maya, Jenna, and Riley arrived on time, chattering about their weeks. I forced myself to smile, to be present, to teach. We warmed up, stretched, worked through combinations.
