Shit, she was right. My face burned red as I realized my mistake. Ihadn’tseen Jules dance—not in this lifetime. I stammered, “Well, I assumed that. . . I mean, youhaveto be amazing if you are in charge of scouting the talent for a place as prestigious as Oubliette, right?”
“You ain’t wrong about that, sweetie.” She laughed, then said, “Listen, you may not recognize it yet, Violet, but you shine on that stage. I don’t knowwhereyou learned to dance like that, but I would never diminish another woman out of jealousy.” She patted my shoulder before returningher attention to Damien. “We need her, sir. With Bri on leave,shewill be our weekend highlight.”
“Very well.” Damien’s acceptance came swift and final. “If you and your guardian truly are inseparable, then I shall have to grant my protection to the boy as well. And given the current happenings at the university, that protection shall extend beyond the walls of Oubliette.”
Protection? This guy reallydoestalk like he’s a mob boss. What in the hell do we need protection from?I started to ask that very question, but Jules’s shocked gasp cut me off.
“If you’re offering to exert yourself outside Oubliette—"
“Enough.” He raised a hand to silence her as his amber eyes drilled into me with an intensity that caught my breath. “I have made my decision.” He stood with fluid grace, and I interpreted that as dismissal.
I started to gather my belongings and paperwork when Jules gently took my arm and said, “Sweetie, the paperwork can wait until after your first set. Damien plans to watch.”
She pointed to the wall on our right. A small click sounded, and the wall slid into the floor, revealing an immense flat screen displaying multiple camera feeds of the club’s interior.
My stomach dropped. “None of those show the private rooms, right?”
Jules shook her head, white ribbons swaying with the movement. “Private rooms are exactly that—private. We don’t monitor what goes on in there. But everything that happens on the first floor is out in the open and monitored.”
I noted she specified only the first floor, which meant the levels below remained unmonitored as well.Interesting.She steered me towards the door, and the television screen shifted from multiple displays to a single feed focused entirely on the stage.
Jules practically vibrated with excitement. “Ready to show them your skills again?”
I nodded, and we left Damien alone to observe my performance.
After my first set was done, I sat in the dressing room backstage reflecting on how it went—the crowd’s reaction, which parts did I miss, which parts did I hit, was I good enough, did my nervousness ruin my dancing?
First performances never got easier. That fundamental truth remained constant in this life as it had in my previous one. With time, I’d come to realize that regardless of how many people you performed in front of, it waswhowas in the audience that was the real cause of nerves. I should have been worried about Damien’s assessment, but for some inexplicable reason, I was more concerned about Rowan’s.
It didn’t help that I couldn’t tell what was going on in his head while I was dancing. His face, his entire demeanor, reflected something I couldn’t place—not quite fear, anger, or lust but a cocktail of all three, unique to him alone. His eyes never left me as I moved across the stage, almost like he was rooted to the bar like a sentinel positioned to monitor all entry points while keeping me centered in his sightline.
I hated myself for finding comfort in it.
I wanted to loathe him on principle. He was nothing more than a childhood friend turned arrogant protector, behaving as though I needed rescue when I had spent years mastering ways to break a man’s body. My purple belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu was not decorative—I hadearnedthat belt through blood, sweat, and countless hours rolling on the mat.
And while it sounded reductive, I didn’t trust anyone. Decades of sexual slavery had taught me that lesson with brutal efficiency. Both men and women were searching for transactions—creatures who viewed bodies as commodities with price tags and expiration dates.
However, the last few days had forced me to reconsider my beliefs. Rowan had demonstrated repeatedly how he could respect my autonomy despite his overbearing presence. I understood thewhybehind his protectiveness, even as it chafed against my independence. His constant presence should have felt like surveillance, reminiscent of how Edward and his men once monitored my every movement.
Instead, it felt like security. A fortress standing between my difficult present and my uncertain future.
That didn’t prevent my anxiety from rearing its vicious head at unexpected moments. At times, my memories felt like a tangled mess of privilege and trauma, creating a cognitive dissonance I couldn’t reconcile.And yet, thinking back to the way he hugged me sent coils of warmth through me. I wasn't alone.
“Sweetie!” Jules’s voice broke me out of my reverie as she enveloped me in an enthusiastic hug. “Your transitions were absolutely on fire out there!” She patted my head maternally. “That has to be the best first set we’ve ever seen around here. Damien was pleased.”
Had Jules been anyone else, I would have dismissed her as a vapid party girl masquerading as a mother hen. But after our earlier conversation with Damien—combined with the memories from my previous life—I’d come to accept Jules as one of those rare and precious things: a genuinelykindperson. In a world populated by predators and prey, Jules existed outside that brutal equation.
So why does she seem oblivious to what truly transpired at Oubliette?
The question created a rift in my perception of her. Sometimes I wondered if Jules was the only normal person in my increasingly strange existence—a beacon of ordinary kindness in a life fractured by complications. Despite every warning bell clamoring in my head, I found myself accepting her friendship with something dangerously close to gratitude.
“Alexis, did you hear me, sweetie?” Jules asked, using my stage name as her voice penetrated my inner spiral. “I said you’re on again in five.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” I nodded and began preparing to go back on.
The space in the dressing room buzzed with energy and conversation, thick with the scent of hairspray, perfume, and the particular musk of women preparing for performance. I focused inward, settling into the headspace I required for dancing.
Because dancing wasn’t about sexuality—not really. It was aboutcontrolfor me.Ownership of my body and knowing it was beautiful in all the ways I chose to use it.
