Page 80 of Lovely Venom

That should tell her everything she needs to know.

“Well, in that case, Miss St. James, I hope you have a nice evening. It was lovely to meet you.”

I return the sentiment and say goodbye, but as I’m walking down the hall, something occurs to me.

I never gave her my last name.

17

CHANTEL

I spend the rest of the night locked in my room, trying and failing to fall asleep. I can’t stop replaying what happened at the club—or wondering what’s transpiring there now.

It’s giving me emotional whiplash, but it shouldn’t.

The writing is on the wall, and the best thing Cristian can do is stay out of my life. Physical separation is necessary at this point.

When I hear him come in after midnight, I hold my breath while I stare at my bedroom door. I hate this kind of ambiguity, and it only gets worse when he keeps his distance for the night.

In the morning, I sleep later than usual and take a long shower, hoping to avoid him entirely. Unfortunately, when I walk into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, he’s at the table working on his laptop.

I breeze past him, avoiding eye contact, but I can feel his gaze on me as I pour myself a coffee and grab a granola bar. As I’m walking out of the kitchen, he calls out to me.

“There’s breakfast for you in the fridge.”

“I don’t want it.” I swallow. “Why are you even here? Can you please just…go?”

I hate that my voice wavers slightly on that last part, revealing a vulnerability I’d rather not.

“No.”

His response is quiet, but firm, and I don’t have the energy to argue, so I go back to my room and lock the door.

I spend the rest of the afternoon prepping for work, then I leave without a word.

When I arrive at Black Velvet and head to my dressing table, the place is still nearly empty. I’m relieved to see there’s nothing waiting for me, but that changes the moment I open my makeup bag.

Tucked inside, there’s a familiar envelope, and when I open it, my blood runs cold.

It’s a picture of me leaving my Pilates class yesterday, and in the background, three men have their eyes scratched out. They’re all wearing similar clothing, and I suspect it means Cristian’s guards aren’t just keeping an eye on my house. They’re also following me in public.

The fact I didn’t notice is slightly alarming, but so is the message on the back of the photo.

I won’t let him have you.

The words blur together as I get caught up in a spiral, reading them over and over. I’m wondering if I somehow imagined them, but I didn’t. They’re real, just as all the other messages have been.

When I hear some of the other dancers coming down the hallway, I crumple the evidence and toss it in the trash.

As the night goes on, I’m not sure I fully recover. My nerves are shot, and I can’t stop searching the crowd, worrying about who it could be.

Cristian didn’t show up for this evening’s performance, but I’m fairly certain he sent a few of his men. They’re at different tables, and they aren’t watching any of the acts. They’re keeping an eye on the other customers, probably trying to figure out the same thing I am.

I hate that it makes me feel better, but it does.

I don’t want to need Cristian. I don’t want to need anyone. But part of me knows this isn’t something I can handle alone.

After the show, I opt to skip social hour and change into my regular clothes to go home. I can’t shake this anxiety, and it only gets worse when I get a phone call from an unknown number.