Gasps rippled through the crowd as she executed a backbend and suspended herself upside down high above the floor, her body trembling slightly with controlled tension.
Then she dropped—fast, silent—before catching the pole at the last second and spinning into a long, wide arc that made every eye track her like a comet.
She moved with a grace that dared gravity to intervene.
The silence gave way to moans—desperate, stunned noises from grown men who sat there slack-jawed in awe.
She rose again and inverted, splitting her legs in a slow scissor. Her golden hair spilled down her back. Every flex of her thighs told a story of power and sensuality beneath the illusion of purity.
And when she descended this time, she didn’t rise up again.
She dropped into a floor routine that was pure slow-burn seduction. Extending one leg, she arched her back and trailed a hand down the curve of her side. She rolled her hips, her fingertips grazing first her thighs and then the stage. The movements were slow, deliberate, and intimate—like the stage itself had become her lover.
I was already halfway to losing it.
And then, out of the blue, a man bolted from the front row and launched himself onto the stage.
He slammed into her with his full weight, tackling her to the ground. Her body folded beneath him, and her sharp scream cut through the chaos.
My hand twitched—ready to draw my Glock—but I didn’t move.
Not yet.
In a flash, a man emerged from the wings of the stage—black suit, cold eyes. With no hesitation, he raised a pistol.
The shot rang out like a thunderclap.
The patron’s head exploded.
Skull, brain, and blood sprayed across the stage like a grotesque firework. The audience gasped and erupted into pandemonium, most heading for the door. The smell hit me a second later—gunpowder and blood.
Lyla sat frozen, her mouth open and gasping for breath, her white costume dripping with red, the crystals and lace soaked in a dead man’s blood.
The shooter stepped over the body, grabbed her by the waist, and hoisted her like a rag doll.
She flailed—no fight, just reflex—still in shock.
He carried her calmly offstage like cargo.
I was moving before I realized it—not with fury, but with purpose.
Through the shadows, through the side corridor that led backstage, following them up a flight of steps.
He shoved open a door that led to a large dressing room and dumped her onto the floor like she was nothing.
“That’s why you still have a job here,” he said to Lyla with a maniacal chuckle. “Even though you were late last night. You keep the men stirred up like that and wanting more, and your head’ll stay on your shoulders.”
Then he kneeled beside her.
“Tell you what,” he said, wiping blood off the side of her face like it was nothing. “You be a good girl and keep your mouth shut about what happened tonight, and I’ll give you tomorrow night off. Guessing you’ll need it.”
He stood and walked out.
I waited in the shadows. Hidden. Fuming.
I wanted to break his neck with my bare hands and feel the crunch of his bones beneath my fingers.
Remaining concealed from her sight, I tracked her every movement.
