Chapter Two

Aurora

The next morning arrives like a ticking time bomb.

The apartment is still exactly how it was handed over to me by the company. You can’t turn a borrowed space into a home. Nothing here is mine but myself—and, as it appears, soon that will no longer be mine either. The only thing out of place in this fancy apartment are my pointe shoes hanging on the window like tiny severed things.

I pull a shirt over my head. No matter how much I wash my skin, it still smells of stage, rosin, and sweat. It’s turning into my signature scent.

My phone rings. I let it cut through the quiet because ignoring it is a game I can’t afford to play.

“Aurora,” the voice says. The director. Anxiety pools in my throat, and the bitter taste almost makes me gag.

“You are requested for a private meeting with Mr. Morelli,” he demands.

Requested.

When someone as powerful as Morelli says requested, it means there is no asking. It means yes is already expected.

I feel my aunt then. I remember the exact rasp of her voice: Rich men are monsters. They buy what they want. They are patient. They are ugly. She said, Run if you can. Never marry one, no matter how the world glamorizes it. Keep your mouth shut and your legs closed to them. Do not put your head in the lion’s mouth for pretty jewels.

“Why does he want me?” I ask.

“Interest,” the director says. “He’s invested in the new season. He wants to speak with you about an opportunity. He insists.” His insistence is a creak of leather.

“When?”

“Eleven.”

I should have walked out of this romanticized prison and let the director find someone else to kiss Morelli’s ring. But the company pays the rent. The company pays for the classes. The company keeps me fed and my aunt’s little heater on when the winter is bad.

I agree because survival is a kind of surrender—not because Lucian Morelli kindles any interest in me.

___

His office is the kind of clean that makes you feel dirty just being in it. He sits behind his desk like he owns the air. He looks younger than thirty-four—and older at the same time. There’s no denying he’s devilishly handsome, but the rot is inside, and everybody can sense it.

On the laptop in front of him, the screen plays a loop of me. Rehearsal footage, zoomed in on the way my hands flex. He pauses it on a frame where my chest is exposed by the costume. I do not ask where he obtained it.

“Miss Laurent. Sit.”

I sit because doing anything else would be loud. Obedience is expected when dealing with men like him.

He pours whiskey into a glass, lifting it to his mouth and watching me over the rim. “Do you drink?” he asks.

“No,” I say. It’s not a lie. My parents’ car accident that orphaned me was because my father was intoxicated. I refuse for history to repeat itself.

He nods. “Noted.”

Then he slides a heavy folder across the desk. The seal is gold, catching my eye immediately. He watches me watch it.

“I will not beat around the bush, Aurora. You are a very talented woman,” he begins. “You have fire. And that’s why I want you to headline our new season—lead roles, complete artistic resources, and no budget questions. A generous allowance of twenty thousand dollars weekly.”

This is the part where the world tilts. Could I have mistaken his intentions?

He leans back in the chair, hands spread, elbows wide. Then he breaks the illusion.

“There is one condition.”

My mouth tastes of iron.

I look at the laptop, where my body stares back at me, never looking at him. It feels like if I do, his icy blue eyes will suck the life out of me.

“You will perform privately for me,” he says finally. “Twice a week. You will come to my private house. You will also be exclusive to me—and to the company—for the contract’s duration.”

“Of what nature are those private performances?” I dare to ask.

He laughs—small and dry and pleased. “The sexual kind, little muse. You will agree to privacy. And in exchange, you’ll have an income that ensures you don’t worry about anything for as long as I’m interested in you.”

In my head, I’m screaming fuck you. In reality, I have a fake, polite smile plastered on my face. I can’t afford to disrespect him, no matter how much I want to. A person who lets her instincts rule her will always end up elbows-deep in shit. I need to think of how to get out of this with the least losses.

“No other men,” he continues. “You belong to me while the contract stands,” he orders.

My body understands the language of ownership. My hands move, and my fingers press the seam of my skirt until the skin whitens.

“Sir, you can have anyone you want. Why me? This isn’t appropriate.”

He taps the laptop. My face fills the screen. “Because I can.”

Because he can.

There are murmurs about the Morelli name—that his so-called love for art is a cover. That his galleries launder money. That he’s dangerous, with claws deep in the underground.

“Say yes,” he hisses. “Or think until tomorrow. But understand this—silence will be taken for consent. Hesitation will be fixed.”

I ache to tell him to shove his money, his signet, and his stage up his dirty throat. I swallow the words down and think of other ways to say them—ways that ensure I leave this office alive.

“Thank you for the offer. I’m very flattered to be approached by a man like you, Mr. Morelli. However, due to personal reasons, I have to decline. I assure you this conversation will remain confidential, and I hope you find a woman better suited to your needs than me.” I mumble it in my best customer-service voice. Working at my aunt’s bakery gave me the skill to deal with entitled people. But he isn’t just entitled—he’s the devil.

His face darkens, like he never expected me to say no.

I leave respectful because I have to—but there’s nothing I want more than to break his glasses with my heel. I leave promising myself not to be a fool.

He turns back to the laptop, playing the rehearsal video again. My ankle flutters as I walk away, because he now truly looks like a monster.

___

Outside, I stand on the curb, breath loud in my ears. I tuck the memory of his offer into my chest and fold it shut.

I practice saying no until my lips become sore, noting how passersby look at me like I’m crazy. I don’t have to look up to know he’s still watching me.

Monsters scheme—but I will try my best to survive.

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