Theo scurries past him like a rat. Ian doesn't even watch him go. His focus is entirely on me.
Then it's just us.
"You okay?" he asks. Simple words that shouldn't make my throat tight.
I nod because speaking feels impossible. The adrenaline is crashing now, leaving me shaky and cold.
"He won't be back," Ian says. A promise or a threat. Maybe both.
His knuckles are white where he grips the doorframe. A controlled violence that was ready to be unleashed on my behalf. The thought sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear.
"He knows my real name." The words escape before I can stop them. "He's in one of my classes."
Ian studies me for a long moment. I've seen him around the club for months. Always watching. Always on the periphery. We've never spoken beyond "good night" or "ID check." Yet something about his presence makes the panic recede a fraction.
"I'll handle it," he says finally.
"How?" The question sounds desperate even to my own ears.
"Richard takes care of his people." He says it like it's simple. Like Richard Blackwood, the nightclub’s owner who rarely shows his face, would concern himself with a dancer's problems.
"I'm just—" I stop, swallow the words 'just a stripper.' "I can handle it."
Ian's expression doesn't change, but something softens around his eyes. "Everyone here is under Richard's protection. Including you." He steps back toward the door. "Finish changing. Someone will escort you home."
The door closes behind him, and I'm alone again with my reflection. Half Claire. Half Rose. Wholly fucked.
I slide down against the cold tile wall, knees to my chest, and allow myself thirty seconds of pure, unfiltered terror. My future hanging by a thread. My carefully constructed double life exposed. Everything I've worked for threatened by one entitled asshole who thinks my body belongs to him because he's seen it on stage.
Twenty-nine. Thirty.
I stand up. Finish removing my makeup. Change into jeans and a hoodie. Pull my hair into a messy bun. Claire again.
But not quite. Something of Rose remains—a hardness around my eyes. A coldness in my chest. The knowledge that men like Theo will always see women like me as commodities to be purchased or stolen.
The locker room is silent when I leave. The club nearly deserted. Just the cleaning crew and security remaining.
Ian waits by the back door, silent and watchful. Beside him stands Richard Blackwood himself. I've only seen him a handful of times in the two years I've worked here. He's older than Ian by at least a decade, silver peppering his temples. Expensive suit and handsome as a devil himself.
"Ms. Young," Richard says, his voice cultured in a way that speaks of old money and older influence. "Ian tells me we had an incident."
I clutch my bag tighter. "It's handled."
Richard smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Nevertheless, I'd like to offer you a ride home. My driver is waiting."
Not a request.
"I can ride the subway," I say, the protest weak even to my own ears.
Richard gestures toward the door. "Please. I insist."
I’ve learned one thing in my two years at Rhapsody: you don’t refuse Richard Blackwood. People who do have a way of disappearing.
I follow him outside, into the warm summer night that smells of rain and city grime. A black SUV with tinted windows idles by the curb.
Ian opens the door, his eyes meeting mine briefly. "Don’t worry," he says quietly. A reassurance I didn't know I needed.
As I slide into the leather backseat, Richard beside me, I realize that tonight has changed everything.
