Chapter One

Aurora

Light.

Too bright. Too white. It makes the stage shimmer like water, and I’m in the middle of it, dancing to stop myself from drowning.

My toes hit resin. Click. Another click. The sound is small, but it keeps me tethered to rhythm.

The music pulls me under, and for a moment, I let it. Then I emerge, taking a deep breath as I spin out of my trance. My ribs ache under the corset, making each breath shallow and hot.

The crowd doesn’t exist for me. Except for him.

Upper left balcony. Always in that exact seat.

Lucian Morelli.

I don’t have to look up to know he’s there. I can feel him. His eyes drag over my skin even when the light blinds me. He’s been coming for weeks—silent, motionless. Watching.

He owns this theatre.

The studios. The marble lobby downstairs.

Probably half the city.

And I dance for him, whether I want to or not.

Six months in Manhattan.

That’s how long it’s been since I left Marseilles and my aunt’s small flat above the bakery.

Six months since the letter from the Morelli Foundation said We’ll sponsor your placement, and I said yes without hesitation. Any dancer knows that it’s the chance of a lifetime, and the money I’m now able to send my aunt back home to keep her afloat says that much. I worked hard for this opportunity, and now it’s mine.

But it’s true what they say—things only shine from afar. Because while everything seems perfect…I’ve been dancing more shows than a mechanical ballerina doll. I’m exhausted, but to stand out, you have to keep up.

I turn through the last sequence, skirt snapping against my thighs, sweat sliding between my shoulders. The spotlight burns, but I hold the pose, waiting for the music to end.

Applause.

Noise.

Meaningless to me. I only dance because it’s what makes my soul feel alive, not because of validation. But the paychecks don’t hurt either.

I bow, trying not to look up at the man I know is watching me.

When I do, the box is empty.

Gone. Like he was never there at all.

___

Backstage smells of sweat and flowery perfume that’s long since soured.

The hall is a blur of bodies, glitter, and laughter.

My dressing space is small—a mirror, a silver vanity table, and a chair.

I peel the costume off piece by piece. The sweat makes the fabric cling to my pale skin. I haven’t seen the sun in months. The air is cold and damp against me—it makes my nipples harden into peaks. Dancers stop caring about nakedness after a while. We change in front of each other like it means nothing; skin is just another layer of uniform when you’ve been dancing long enough.

I pull the pins out of my long blonde hair, one by one, until it falls heavy down my back.

When I move to fetch my clothes from the wooden chair, I notice—for the first time—a bouquet resting on it. White lilies.

A dozen of them, maybe more. The stems wrapped in dark paper.

This place has seen plenty of bouquets—from proud parents, supportive friends, and in-love boyfriends. But never for me.

There’s a note tucked between them. No name. But I know who they’re from. Lucian Morelli doesn’t sign things. He doesn’t need to.

Six words:

You moved like you were mine.

My heart forgets how to beat for a second, then starts again—too fast.

Someone knocks at my cubicle, making me jump.

“Night, Izzy,” Maya calls. She’s new—still smiling, still thinks this life is glitter and applause. She’ll find out soon enough that using your passion to pay the bills turns it into slavery. I feel like an over-glorified slave.

“Night,” I say, too soft for her to hear.

Her footsteps fade, and I’m left all alone again.

I stare at the lilies.

At the note.

At myself in the mirror—smudged makeup, red feet, hair half falling.

And I wonder, since when do girls like me attract men like Lucian? To him, I’m nothing but scum at the bottom of his expensive shoes. The working class. The girl pretty enough to look at, too low-class to even fuck—never mind date.

My hand moves on its own, fingers brushing a petal. The smell sticks to my skin.

I’m not stupid. Stupid people don’t survive fancy-looking hellholes like this. I know that catching the eye of a powerful man is a death sentence. They’re entitled; they think everything is attainable to them. And God help their subject if it isn’t.

If Lucian decides he wants me, refusing him will ensure he strips me of everything I have. Some girls—more naïve, more hopeful—would giggle with delight at my current situation. A hot billionaire showing attention to a silly working-class girl. The perfect start to a cliché romance book.

But I know exactly what it is…a nightmare.

I whisper to the empty room,

“I’m trapped.”

The lilies don’t answer.

Only the hum of the radiator, the sound of the city breathing outside.

And me.

Caught between a predator’s teeth.

Knowing this is either my end…or my doom. No other cards left for me.

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