Chapter 2
I should ignore it. Should roll over and try to salvage the three hours of sleep I might get before my morning lab. But my fingers have their own agenda, swiping across the screen before my brain can intervene.
One new message. A video attachment.
My thumb hovers over it, trembling. I already know what it is. I can feel it in the hollow pit that's replaced my stomach.
I press play.
The footage is grainy but clear enough. Me on stage.
Rose in her element, body wrapped around the pole, back arched in a move that took months to perfect.
The red lights cast shadows that make my face harder to recognize, but anyone looking would know.
Would see Claire Young beneath the makeup and glitter.
The ten-second clip ends. Another message appears immediately.
Meet me at the campus coffee shop. 9 AM.
Come alone or this goes to the Dean of Admissions.
And everyone else.
I drop the phone like it's burning my skin. It bounces on my comforter, screen still glowing with Theo's threat.
"Fuck." The word escapes on a breath that sounds more like a sob. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
I curl into myself, knees to chest, forehead pressed against them. The position I've assumed during every crisis since childhood. Like making myself smaller will somehow make the danger pass over me.
It never works.
My mind races through options, each one worse than the last. Go to the meeting. Let him blackmail me into whatever he wants. My body. My dignity. My future.
Don't go. Call his bluff. Watch my medical school dreams evaporate when the video circulates.
Tell someone. But who? My boss? The police who would give him a slap on the wrist and a warning because of his connections? The university that would expel me for my conduct faster than they'd punish Theo for blackmail?
There are no real choices.
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The panic technique they taught us in that mandatory wellness seminar last semester. The one where they talked about stress management without acknowledging that most of us are one financial emergency away from dropping out.
The irony isn't lost on me.
When my hands stop shaking enough to function, I pick up the phone again. Stare at the message. At the video that's frozen on a frame of me mid-spin, face turned toward the camera like I knew it was there. Like I was performing for it specifically.
I wasn't. I never am. The men blur together after a while. Just wallets with eyes.
I text back a single word: Fine.
The shower doesn't wash away the feeling of being watched, but it helps with the club smell—smoke and perfume and desperation. I scrub until my skin is pink, until the water runs cold, until I can pretend I'm just Claire again. Pre-med student. Scholarship recipient. A good girl.
The lie sits uneasily on my skin as I dress in jeans and a loose sweater despite the summer heat. Armor of a different kind than what Rose wears, but armor nonetheless.
The campus coffee shop is crowded at 8:55 AM. Students hunched over laptops, professors grading papers, the constant hiss of the espresso machine providing white noise that makes private conversations possible. I scan the room, heart hammering against my ribs hard enough to bruise.
Theo isn't here yet.
I choose a table in the corner, back to the wall, facing the door. The position of prey that's been hunted before. My coffee sits untouched in front of me, growing cold as the minutes tick by.
9:00 AM.
9:05 AM.
9:10 AM.
He's making me wait on purpose. Another power play.
At 9:17, the door opens. But it's not Theo who walks in.
It's Ian.
He scans the room with the practiced efficiency of someone who evaluates threats for a living. When his eyes land on me, something shifts in his expression. Not surprise. He knew I'd be here. Which means?—
My phone buzzes again.
Change of plans. Meet at my apartment. 10 AM. Don't be late.
He sends the address.
Ice spreads through my veins. I look up to find Ian already standing at my table, his presence drawing curious glances from nearby students.
He doesn't belong here in his dark jeans and fitted black t-shirt, looking like he stepped out of some military thriller while the rest of us play at being academics.
"He's not coming," Ian says, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
"How do you know that?" The question comes out sharper than I intend, edged with the panic that's been building since I woke to that message.
Ian doesn't answer. Instead, he pulls out the chair across from me and sits down. His movements are controlled, deliberate. Nothing wasted.
"He sent you another message," he says. Not a question.
I stare at him, mind racing to connect dots I didn't know existed. "Are you following me?"
"No." The denial is immediate, firm. "I'm following him."
The implication hangs between us. Richard's words from last night echo in my head: *I'll handle it.*
"What's happening?" I ask, voice barely above a whisper. "What did you do?"
Ian's eyes meet mine, steady and unreadable. "Nothing yet." He nods toward my phone. "What did he ask for?"
I should lie. Should tell him it's none of his business. Should handle this myself like I've handled everything else in my life since I was sixteen and realized no one was coming to save me.
Instead, I slide my phone across the table, the message still open on the screen.
Ian reads it, his expression unchanging. Then he looks at me, really looks at me, in a way that makes me want to hide and stand taller simultaneously.
"He has a video," I say, the words burning my throat on the way out. "Of me. At the club."
"I know."
Two simple words that shift the ground beneath me. "How?"
"Our security system flagged his behavior. We have measures in place." He hands my phone back. "Richard takes privacy seriously."
"Then why didn't you stop him?" The question comes out more accusation than inquiry. "If you knew he was filming?—"
"We didn't know until after." Ian leans forward slightly. "The video he sent you can't be shared. It's already been remotely corrupted."
Relief floods through me so intensely that for a moment I think I might pass out. Then suspicion follows close behind.
"That's not possible," I say. "You can't just... delete someone else's files."
The corner of Ian's mouth twitches in what might be amusement. "Richard has resources."
"So what now?" I wrap my hands around my cold coffee cup, needing something to ground me. "He'll just try again. Take another video. Find another way to—" I stop, unable to say the word.
"To blackmail you," Ian finishes for me. His voice hardens on the last two words. "No. He won't."
"You don't know him."
"I know men like him." The certainty in Ian's voice sends a shiver down my spine. "And he's meeting someone else at his apartment in forty minutes."
Understanding dawns slowly, then all at once. "You."
Ian doesn't confirm or deny. He just watches me with those steady eyes that seem to catalog my every reaction.
"What are you going to do?" I ask, not sure I want the answer.
"Have a conversation." The simplicity of his response somehow makes it more terrifying. "Make the consequences of his actions clear."
"You can't hurt him." The words rush out before I can stop them. Not because I care about Theo's wellbeing, but because violence leaves evidence. Creates investigations. Draws attention I can't afford.
"I don't need to hurt him to make him understand." Ian stands, towering over the table. "Go to class, Claire. This ends today."
The sound of my real name on his lips jolts through me. Not Rose. Claire. The girl I am in daylight. The one with dreams beyond the pole and the stage.
"Why are you helping me?" I ask, the question that's been burning since he appeared in the locker room doorway last night.
Ian looks down at me, something unreadable flickering across his features. "Just… because I want to."
He turns to leave, but I reach out, my fingers catching the edge of his sleeve. The contact is brief, barely there, but he freezes as if I've grabbed him with full force.
"Thank you," I say, the words inadequate but all I have to offer.
Ian nods once, a sharp dip of his chin, then walks away. The coffee shop seems to exhale as he leaves, conversations resuming, the spell of his presence broken.
I check my phone again. The video message from Theo is still there, but when I try to play it, an error message appears. *File corrupted. Cannot open.*
Part of me wants to follow Ian. To see what a "conversation" with Theo looks like. To witness whatever power Richard Blackwood wields through his security chief.
But the rational part of me—the part that's survived this long by making calculated decisions—knows better. So I gather my things, dump my untouched coffee in the trash, and head to my Biochemistry lab like nothing has happened. Like my world hasn't been upended twice in twelve hours.
The lab is all fluorescent lights and the sharp smell of chemicals. I move through the motions on autopilot, measuring solutions, recording results, nodding at the appropriate moments when my lab partner speaks.
My mind is elsewhere. At Theo’s apartment where two men are having a "conversation" about me. About the video that could destroy everything I've worked for.
"Claire? Hello? Earth to Claire?" My lab partner waves a hand in front of my face. "You've been staring at that beaker for like five minutes."
I blink, reality rushing back in. "Sorry. Didn't sleep much."
"Clearly." She peers at me more closely. "You okay? You look... I don't know. Different."
I wonder what she sees. If Rose is showing through the cracks in Claire's carefully constructed facade. If last night left marks visible to those who know where to look.
"Just tired," I say, the lie coming easily after years of practice. "Late night studying."
The rest of the lab passes in a blur. I check my phone obsessively, but there are no new messages. No threats from Theo. Just silence that stretches my nerves to breaking point.
When class ends, I walk to the subway on legs that feel disconnected from my body. The summer heat wraps around me like a weighted blanket, making each step an effort. The quad is nearly empty this time of day, most students still in class or hiding in air-conditioned buildings.
I'm so focused on my phone—still silent, still offering no answers—that I don't notice the figure leaning against the building until I'm almost upon him.
Richard Blackwood stands there in a suit that probably costs more than my semester's tuition, looking completely at ease despite the heat. His presence here, in my daytime world, is so jarring that I stop dead in my tracks.
"Ms. Young," he says, voice carrying across the distance between us. "A moment of your time?"
I approach slowly, caution overriding curiosity. "How did you know where to find me?"
Richard's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I have my ways."
"What's happening?" I ask, stopping a few feet away from him. "With Theo. The video."
"Handled," Richard says, the single word carrying the weight of finality. "Mr. Mason has had a change of heart regarding his academic future. He's transferring to a university on the west coast, effective immediately."
I stare at him, trying to process what he's saying. "He's... leaving? Just like that?"
"Just like that." Richard straightens from his position against my car. "His parents were quite understanding when certain... indiscretions of his came to light. They agreed a fresh start would be beneficial."
The implication is clear. Whatever leverage Theo had on me, Richard had more on him.
"Why?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "Why would you do this for me?"
Richard studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "I protect what's mine, Ms. Young. My club. My employees. My investments."
"I'm just a dancer," I say, the words bitter on my tongue.
"You're a medical student working to pay your way through school," he corrects me. "A survivor using the resources available to you. I respect that."
The way he says it—like he knows exactly what I'm surviving, exactly what drove me to Rhapsody in the first place—makes my skin prickle with unease.
"How much do you know about me?" I ask, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am, standing alone in the deserted area with a man who apparently has the power to make people disappear.
"Enough." Richard reaches into his suit jacket and withdraws an envelope. "This is for you."
I don't take it. "What is it?"
"Insurance." He holds it out, waiting. "In case anyone else decides to threaten your future again."
Slowly, I reach for the envelope. It's heavy, expensive paper sealed with what looks like actual wax. The kind of thing I've only seen in dramas.
"Thank you," I say, because what else can I say to the man who just eliminated the threat to my entire future?
Richard nods once then walks away, leaving me standing in the heat with an envelope I'm afraid to open and questions I'm afraid to ask.
When I’m alone, I finally break the seal on the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of paper. Not a letter, as I expected, but a contract. The heading reads "Rhapsody Employment Agreement – Specialized Services."
My eyes scan the document, catching phrases like "confidentiality clause" and "personal security detail" and "compensation package." At the bottom, a figure that makes my breath catch. More money per month than I make in three at my current arrangement.
And below that, a handwritten note in elegant script:
Your education is an investment worth protecting. These terms are negotiable. —RB
I stare at the contract until the words blur together. Until the reality of what's being offered sinks in.
Not just protection from Theo. Protection from anyone who might threaten my double life. Financial security that would mean fewer nights on stage, more time for studying.
All for... what? The contract doesn't specify what "specialized services" entail. Doesn't clarify what Richard Blackwood expects in return for his generosity.
Nothing comes without a price. I learned that lesson early and often.
I fold the contract carefully, sliding it back into the envelope. The weight of it seems to grow heavier in my hands, a physical manifestation of the choice before me.
Accept Richard's offer and whatever strings come attached to it.
Or walk away and face the next Theo on my own.
No good options. Just varying degrees of surrender.
My phone buzzes, making me jump. A text from an unknown number.
Rhapsody. Tomorrow. 9 P.M. We should talk. —Ian
I stare at the message, wondering if it's a request or a command. Wondering what Ian Harris, Richard Blackwood's enforcer, wants to talk about.
Wondering if I have any choice at all anymore.