My heart is pounding so hard it could power the stage lights. One more move. Pants—gone. Now the jacket. And the damn feathers—at rehearsal, they were just props. Now they're tiny, airborne assassins.
Sexy. That’s the idea. But in about three seconds my breasts will be greeting everyone in the room like long-lost friends.
Three—spin. Two—head back. One—oh God.
Smile. Own it. Are the nipple covers still there? Quick glance—yes. Good. Smile again. Spin the jacket—feather in my eye or sleeve in my face? Whatever. Commit. Throw it to the crowd… and it hits the floor.
Perfect.
As the lights cut, I caught his eyes across the room—one second, but enough. That stare. Like he was burning and freezing at once.
Then something shifted in the crowd—a commotion, low voices, movement in his section. I sensed it mid-spin, the air changing. His energy. Sharp. Dangerous.
He did something.
Protected something.
Me?
Bow. Step back. Run.
Somehow—dignity intact-ish—I survived. Victory! …Except the dressing room’s the other way. Dignity dropping fast.
“Alena!”
I turn—instinctively covering the boobs I’d just showcased to over a hundred people. It’s Theodora—London’s courtroom queen, about to take the stage.
“You were amazing! Sexy. Sensual. I almost want to take you out for a drink.”
And just like that, I’m steady. Her smile. Her eyes. Maybe flashing people is worth it. Look what this show does—to the women around me, and to me. I’m claiming my body. My sexuality. Myself.
“Theodora, I’m sure I’ll be nothing compared to you. You’re gorgeous.”
She smiled, and I couldn’t help but smile back. I meant it—she is gorgeous. I want her to be amazing. Better than me. I want her to shine.
She hugged me tight, and I hugged her back, my heart in it.
Moments later, I’d changed into black trousers and a shirt—formal, simple, comfortable.
The stage lights cut. The crowd roared. I ran backstage, heart pounding, skin buzzing—and walked straight into the coldest silence I’d ever felt from him.
Backstage corridor. Heart still hammering, skin buzzing under the lights’ afterglow. I felt powerful. Alive. Untouchable. The kind of high that made you believe you could do anything, be anything.
In the corridor, the high faded slightly. The shadow from this morning lingered in my mind—claws, waiting. Tonight felt different. Exposure. Power. But the thing hated light. Hated eyes on me.
I wondered if it hated him watching most of all.
Then I walked into the main room and scanned for familiar faces.
There—Marcus and Lucy waving like maniacs.
And Drogo.
He was standing apart, drink in hand, eyes on me but… wrong. Distant. Jaw tight like he’d been grinding his teeth for hours. No smile. No warmth. No you killed it.
Just that stare—intense, almost angry.
What the fuck?
