Chapter 8
ALENA
My heart is pounding so hard it could power the stage lights. One more move. Pants—gone. Now the jacket. And the damn feathers—at rehearsal, they were just props. Now they're tiny, airborne assassins.
Sexy. That’s the idea. But in about three seconds my breasts will be greeting everyone in the room like long-lost friends.
Three—spin. Two—head back. One—oh God.
Smile. Own it. Are the nipple covers still there? Quick glance—yes. Good. Smile again. Spin the jacket—feather in my eye or sleeve in my face? Whatever. Commit. Throw it to the crowd… and it hits the floor.
Perfect.
As the lights cut, I caught his eyes across the room—one second, but enough. That stare. Like he was burning and freezing at once.
Then something shifted in the crowd—a commotion, low voices, movement in his section. I sensed it mid-spin, the air changing. His energy. Sharp. Dangerous.
He did something.
Protected something.
Me?
Bow. Step back. Run.
Somehow—dignity intact-ish—I survived. Victory! …Except the dressing room’s the other way. Dignity dropping fast.
“Alena!”
I turn—instinctively covering the boobs I’d just showcased to over a hundred people. It’s Theodora—London’s courtroom queen, about to take the stage.
“You were amazing! Sexy. Sensual. I almost want to take you out for a drink.”
And just like that, I’m steady. Her smile. Her eyes. Maybe flashing people is worth it. Look what this show does—to the women around me, and to me. I’m claiming my body. My sexuality. Myself.
“Theodora, I’m sure I’ll be nothing compared to you. You’re gorgeous.”
She smiled, and I couldn’t help but smile back. I meant it—she is gorgeous. I want her to be amazing. Better than me. I want her to shine.
She hugged me tight, and I hugged her back, my heart in it.
Moments later, I’d changed into black trousers and a shirt—formal, simple, comfortable.
The stage lights cut. The crowd roared. I ran backstage, heart pounding, skin buzzing—and walked straight into the coldest silence I’d ever felt from him.
Backstage corridor. Heart still hammering, skin buzzing under the lights’ afterglow. I felt powerful. Alive. Untouchable. The kind of high that made you believe you could do anything, be anything.
In the corridor, the high faded slightly. The shadow from this morning lingered in my mind—claws, waiting. Tonight felt different. Exposure. Power. But the thing hated light. Hated eyes on me.
I wondered if it hated him watching most of all.
Then I walked into the main room and scanned for familiar faces.
There—Marcus and Lucy waving like maniacs.
And Drogo.
He was standing apart, drink in hand, eyes on me but… wrong. Distant. Jaw tight like he’d been grinding his teeth for hours. No smile. No warmth. No you killed it.
Just that stare—intense, almost angry.
What the fuck?
I walked over, grin ready despite the knot forming in my stomach. “So? Did I trip?”
Lucy hugged me hard, nearly lifting me off the ground. “You were fucking incredible!”
Marcus fist-bumped me, grinning. “Queen of the stage. Absolute fire.”
“Thank you, guys!” I laughed—but my eyes were already searching for him.
Drogo’s hug was… nothing.
Arms loose. Body stiff. Over in a second. Like hugging a stranger. Like I hadn’t woken up in his bed this morning, hadn’t traced his tattoos while sitting on his lap last night, hadn’t cried in his arms while he read me fairy tales.
“Good job,” he said, voice flat, eyes sliding past me like I was a stranger.
No hug. No smile. No warmth.
Just two words that felt like a slap.
Good job.
Like I’d turned in a decent report. Like I hadn’t just bared myself—literally—in front of a hundred people while he watched.
This morning he held me through a panic attack. Cooked for me. Sat behind me with his arms around my waist, murmuring keep going when my fingers slowed.
Tonight I gave everything I had on that stage—and he can’t even look at me?
My skin still buzzed from the lights, from the eyes on me, from the way I’d felt powerful. But his cold hug stripped it all away. I felt naked again—not in a sexy way. In a small, exposed, invisible way.
“Thanks,” I said, smile freezing on my face.
Then I saw her.
Some brunette at the bar—short red dress, legs for days, the kind of effortless beauty that doesn’t need stage lights to shine. She’d been hovering near our table earlier—I’d clocked her from the stage. Now she was closer, drink in hand, eyes tracking Drogo’s every move.
He didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.
My stomach twisted.
Is that why? Some random woman catching his eye while I was half-naked for the world?
Or worse—is there someone? Has there been someone this whole time?
While I was straddling him on the balcony, he was hard beneath me, hands gripping my hips like he wanted to keep me there forever. While I was crying in his arms, he was pressing kisses to my hair, holding me like I mattered.
Was that all just… comfort? Habit? Seventeen years of muscle memory while his heart belonged somewhere else?
The high from the stage crashed hard.
Powerful up there. Invisible down here.
Lucy grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the bar. “Come on, let’s get you a proper drink. You earned it.”
I let her lead me, but I couldn’t stop glancing back at him.
Drogo stood there, drink in hand, jaw still tight, eyes finally meeting mine across the crowd.
That same look from the stage. Burning. Freezing. Wanting—and… what? Anger? Fear?
I didn’t understand.
Marcus clapped him on the shoulder, saying something I couldn’t hear. Drogo’s response was short, clipped. Then he turned away.
Putting his back to me.
Deliberately.
The brunette saw her opening and moved closer.
She touched his arm. Lightly. Casually.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.
My fingers tightened around the glass Lucy handed me until I thought it might shatter.
“You okay?” Lucy asked, eyes sharp.
“Yeah,” I lied. “Just coming down from the adrenaline.”
She didn’t believe me. I could see it in her face. But she didn’t push.
We drank. We laughed. Marcus told terrible jokes. Lucy recounted every moment of my performance like she’d filmed it in her mind.
And Drogo stood ten feet away, close enough to touch, acting like I didn’t exist.
Like this morning never happened.
Like last night on the balcony—his hands on my hips, my thighs over his, that charged silence between us—never happened.
The brunette laughed at something he said. He smiled—barely, but still. More than he’d given me all night.
My stomach twisted into knots.
Oh.
So that’s how it is.
Fine.
I downed my drink and ordered another.
If he wanted distance, I’d give him distance. If he wanted to pretend this morning meant nothing, I could pretend too.
I turned my back to him—deliberately, the way he’d done to me—and focused on Lucy and Marcus. Laughed louder. Smiled brighter. Played the part of the woman who didn’t care.
But my skin still buzzed from his gaze during the performance. My body still remembered his arms this morning, the way he’d held me like I was the only real thing in his world.
And now?
Now he couldn’t even look at me.
Hours later, when the crowd thinned and the lights came up, I grabbed my coat.
“Heading out?” Marcus asked.
“Yeah. Early morning tomorrow. Deadline.”
Lie. But a good one.
Lucy hugged me goodbye. “You were amazing tonight. Seriously.”
“Thanks, Luce.”
Drogo was at the bar, settling the tab. The brunette had finally left—or maybe he’d sent her away. I couldn’t tell.
Didn’t care.
Liar.
I walked past him toward the door.
“Alena.”
His voice stopped me. Low. Rough. Like it cost him something to say my name.
I turned slowly, one eyebrow raised. “Yes?”
He looked at me—really looked—for the first time all night. Eyes tracing my face like he was memorizing it. Like he was already saying goodbye.
“You were…” He stopped. Jaw working. “You were incredible tonight.”
The words should’ve meant something. Should’ve filled the hole his coldness had carved out.
But they came too late.
And they didn’t explain the distance. The stiffness. The way he’d turned his back.
“Thanks,” I said, voice flat as his had been earlier.
Two could play that game.
I walked out into the night, coat pulled tight, and didn’t look back.
But I felt his eyes on me until the door closed.
A chill ran down my spine—not from the cold. Sharper. Familiar. The shadow, stirring in the dark spaces between streetlights.
It always got worse when he pulled away.
Oh… is that fucking so?
Fine. If he’s pulling away, I’ll pull harder.
Tomorrow, he doesn’t get to hide.
Tonight proved I could bare myself in front of a hundred strangers and own every second.
Tomorrow, I’ll bare myself to him—all of me—and make him admit what I saw in his eyes when the lights went down.
One way or another, this ends.
Even if it breaks us both.