I glimpsed Granite by the main entrance, his crystalline skin unmistakable even in the shifting lights. His gaze swept the stage, lingering on me longer than comfort allowed. Did he recognize me despite the mask? I turned away, focusing on the routine, letting the dance carry me across the stage and closer to the wings.
As soon as we hit the final pose and the lights dimmed for the next number, I slipped backstage, gasping for breath. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, making my hands shake as I tore off the mask.I’m more out of shape than I realized.
“You were MAGNIFICENT!” Dario gushed, appearing beside me in a cloud of glitter. “The crowd LOVED you!”
“I have to go,” I said, already backing toward the dressing rooms. “Thanks for the cover, but I need to—“
“Oh, GO do your mysterious WHATEVER it is,” he waved. “But you OWE me! I’ll cover for you if anyone asks—I’ll say you got SICK or something!”
I squeezed his arm in gratitude before darting back to the dressing rooms, now empty with everyone either performing or preparing for their next number. The door to the Madam’s office was unguarded—exactly as I’d hoped. Her security system relied more on magical wards than physical locks, but those were calibrated to stop intruders from entering the club, not former employees moving within it.
The office was opulent, dripping with the Madam’s particular brand of new-money garishness—velvet and gilt and crystal chandeliers. Behind her massive desk, a portrait of herself gazed down with cold, predatory eyes. Even painted, they seemed to follow me as I crossed the plush carpet.
The safe was hidden behind the portrait—because of course it was, subtlety had never been her strong suit. I swung the frame aside, revealing the sleek metal door with its digital keypad. I hesitated, mind racing through possible combinations. Her birthday? No, she changed it depending on her mood. The club’s founding date? Possibly, but I’d never known the actual date.
Then I remembered overhearing her on the phone once, drunkenly shouting at someone about “the day it all began”—May 19, 1973. Worth a shot.
I punched in 051973, holding my breath.
The pad flashed red. Incorrect.
I tried again, reversing it: 731905.
Another red flash. Two more attempts before it would lock me out.
Think, Alex. What would a narcissistic lotus-eater choose as her code?
My eyes drifted to the portrait, to the Madam’s self-satisfied smile. Of course. I entered 060666—the same as the back door code. Her favorite number repeated, because why wouldn’t she use the same code twice? Security had never been her concern; fear kept people in line, not locks.
The pad flashed green. The safe door swung open with an expensive whisper of well-oiled hinges.
Inside, neatly organized folders lined the interior, each labeled with names—her collection of souls, contracts, and blackmail. My hands shook as I flipped through them, leaving smudges of yellow paint on the edges. Martinez... Miller... Nguyen...
There. Vasquez, Alejandro E.
I pulled out the folder, my pulse thundering in my ears. Inside was the contract I’d signed when I’d been at my lowest point, written on what I now recognized was human skin, the ink shimmering with a sickly green glow. My signature at the bottom stood out in dried blood—my blood, taken the night she’d “rescued” me from the streets.
Nausea surged through me as I stared at the document that had held me captive for so long. Seven years of service, it stipulated, with provisions for “visual recording and distribution of performances both public and private.” No wonder she’d fought so hard to keep me—I was worth a fortune to her in streaming revenue alone.
I folded the contract, tucking it into the slim pocket hidden in my disguise. My hands left yellow smears on the safe’s interior as I closed it, the portrait swinging back into place with a soft thud.
I’d done it. I actually had my contract.
A scraping sound from the outer office froze me in place. Someone was coming. I darted behind the door just as it swung open, pressing myself into the shadow of a massive bookcase.
“I swear I saw someone come in here,” came a gravelly voice—Granite.
“You’re paranoid,” replied a second voice, the wispy tenor of Smokey. “Probably just another of Dario’s conquests. He’s always sneaking them back here.”
“Maybe.” Granite didn’t sound convinced. His heavy footsteps crossed to the desk. “But the Madam would skin us both if anything happened to her collection.”
I held my breath, willing my racing heart to quiet. The contract felt like it was burning against my skin, its magical properties perhaps responding to my fear. A thin bead of sweat trickled down my spine.
“The safe looks undisturbed,” Smokey noted. “See? Nothing to worry about.”
“What’s this?” Granite’s voice sharpened. “Paint? On the safe?”
My heart stopped. I’d forgotten about the paint from Dario’s hug. I’d left evidence all over the safe.
