Chapter Three
Celia
"Arms straight, chest lifted! You're fleeing danger, not slouching to a business meeting."
Valentina's commands cut through the theater's cavernous space as I balanced fifteen feet above the stage. The safety harness bit into my thighs, the rigging cables trembled with my weight, and my fingers clutched a silk scarf like it was the only thing between me and certain death.
Which, given my complete lack of stage experience, wasn't entirely wrong.
"Now!" Val called from below.
I tossed the crushed-velvet scarf—midnight blue, embedded with silver stars—into the air. The moment it left my fingertips, the trap door beneath me dropped away. My stomach lurched as I plummeted six feet before the harness caught, leaving me suspended in sudden darkness as the stage lights cut out. A hiss, a flash of brilliant white light, and the unmistakable smell of gunpowder filled the air.
When the lights returned, I hung motionless above an empty stage—invisibility achieved through the ancient art of misdirection and the modern miracle of well-timed pyrotechnics.
"Better," Val called, her voice echoing against the velvet-draped walls. "Though you still have the terrified facial expression of an accountant being audited. Try for mystery, not panic."
After three days of rehearsals for Valentina's Las Vegas magic spectacular, I'd gained a new appreciation for the brutal physicality behind the illusion of effortlessness. My muscles ached in places I hadn't known existed. Bruises bloomed across my shins and forearms. And today's flash-powder training had added singed eyebrows to my growing list of occupational hazards.
"That's enough aerial work," Val decided, gesturing for the technicians to lower me. "You've got the mechanical part down. Just remember: the timing between the flash and your exit is everything. Wait for my signal, then vanish. One second too early or late, and the audience sees the trick, not the magic."
As my feet touched solid ground again, Val approached, her crimson lips pursed in evaluation. "The flash powder is your friend, carino . In my twenty years of performance, it's saved me from more than one difficult situation."
Something in her tone suggested she wasn't talking about missed stage cues.
"I'll practice," I promised, unclipping the harness with hands that had almost stopped trembling.
"Good. Tomorrow we add the quick-release corset to the routine." She winked. "Another essential skill for a woman in our position."
I wondered briefly what "our position" meant but didn't ask. Every time I spent more than five minutes with Valentina, I got the distinct impression she knew more than she let on. Then again, she was a magician. Who knew what untold secrets she might be hiding? I couldn’t decide whether I really wanted to know.
Between the stalker that had driven me into hiding and the enigmatic performers surrounding me, I'd never felt more aware of the layers of secrecy that seemed to permeate the Jade Petal's atmosphere. Everyone here wore masks—some literal, some figurative. The irony that I was now adding to those layers with my own deception wasn't lost on me.
After rehearsal, I retreated to my dressing cubicle—a glorified closet with a vanity mirror, makeup station, and costume rack. The cramped space had become my sanctuary over the past four days. I'd added small touches to make it mine: a framed photo of Lake Michigan, a coffee mug from the casino gift shop, a small potted succulent that wouldn't die when I inevitably forgot to water it.
I was peeling off my practice costume when a sharp knock interrupted my thoughts.
"Decent?" called a cheerful voice.
Before I could answer, the door swung open to reveal Riley Cho, the production's lead wardrobe technician. With a blue-black mohawk, elaborate sleeve tattoos, and a utility belt bristling with scissors and measuring tapes, Riley looked like the love child of a punk rocker and a Swiss Army knife.
"Mostly decent," I admitted, hastily pulling my robe closed.
"Honey, I've seen more skin at Sunday brunch." Riley bustled in, dropping a garment bag on my chair. "Val wants you in the royal blue feather ensemble for tonight’s run-through. Said something about testing the lighting against your skin tone."
While we'd chatted briefly during my fittings, this was my first real interaction with Riley, who preferred the pronouns “they/ them.” They adjusted the feathered headdress on my mannequin head form with expert precision, making minute alterations with a tiny pair of silver scissors.
"So, New Girl." Riley pinned me with a direct look. "What's your story? Val says you fell from the administrative heavens just in time to replace Sophia after she eloped with that oil magnate."
The cover story. Right. "Not much to tell. I needed a change of scenery, had some event coordination experience..." I shrugged, aiming for casual.
Riley's eyebrow ring glinted as they tilted their head skeptically. "Uh-huh. And I'm a Mormon missionary. Nobody comes to work for Val without a story. Usually one involving bad decisions, worse luck, or a combination thereof."
I concentrated on removing my stage makeup, hoping the cold cream would explain my sudden flush. "Maybe I'm just seizing an unexpected opportunity."
"In sequins that cut off circulation to vital organs? Sure." Riley's tone softened. "Look, everyone here has secrets. That's Vegas. But some secrets can get you hurt if you're not careful."
I froze, washcloth halfway to my face. "What do you mean?"
"I mean this place has politics that would make Washington blush." They glanced toward the door, then lowered their voice. "Enzo's security team doesn't exactly play by Nevada gaming regulations. The high-roller rooms upstairs have cameras with blind spots big enough to hide a body. And management looks the other way as long as the money flows."
My heart skipped. Was this a warning? A threat? Riley's expression remained carefully neutral, but their eyes held something close to concern.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.
Riley reached into their utility belt and extracted a small flip phone. "Because Val likes you, which means I like you. And people Val likes have a history of needing emergency exits." They pressed the burner phone into my palm. "My number's programmed in. So is the stage door security code that bypasses the main system. I'm not saying you'll need it, but..."
"But better prepared than dead?" I finished.
Riley's laugh startled me with its warmth. "I was going to say, 'better prepared than sorry,' but your version has more drama. You'll fit in perfectly."
After they left, I examined the phone—basic, untraceable, exactly like the one Detective Alvarez had given me before I disappeared into the Jade Petal. I slipped it into my bag beside its twin, wondering what threats Riley imagined I might face.
Whatever dangers lurked in the Jade Petal, they couldn't possibly know about the real one that had followed me here. The one that had somehow tracked me to my dressing room with that chilling note just days after my arrival.
Welcome to the show, Nova.
I shivered, remembering how the familiar pink rose had looked against my makeup mirror. The same handwriting. The same implied intimacy. The stalker had found me despite the police precautions, despite the fake identity, despite everything. And now they knew my stage name—my only protection.
My fingers trembled as I changed into street clothes. Every shadow in the corner suddenly seemed darker, every unusual sound a potential threat. The stalker had been in this very room while I rehearsed, had touched my belongings, had left their mark. Again.
A soft knock interrupted my spiraling thoughts.
"Delivery for Nova Sinclair," called an unfamiliar male voice.
I hesitated, throat tight with sudden panic. "Who is it?"
"Dustin. From the deli across the street? You ordered the veggie wrap?"
I hadn't ordered anything, but curiosity overcame caution. Opening the door a crack revealed a gangly teenager with an explosion of cinnamon freckles and a paper bag radiating the unmistakable scent of fresh bread.
"I think there's been a mistake," I said. "I didn't order—"
"Compliments of the house." He thrust the bag forward, a flush creeping up his neck. "I just... I saw your rehearsal yesterday. Before the doors closed. You were amazing."
The earnest admiration in his voice caught me off guard. After days of feeling hunted, simple appreciation felt almost alien.
"That's very kind, but I'm still learning the ropes."
"Well, I thought you were great." His blush deepened. "The sandwich is on me. Thought you might need energy for your big debut."
I accepted the bag, touched by the gesture. "Thank you, Dustin."
His grin practically glowed. "Anytime. Literally, anytime. We're open until two."
After he left, I examined the sandwich with a mixture of gratitude and caution. An innocent gift from a starstruck deli worker—exactly the kind of normal interaction I'd taken for granted before pink roses started appearing on my desk. Before my secure life had shattered into paranoia and assumed identities.
I was unwrapping the sandwich when I noticed it: a cream-colored envelope tucked into the bag's side pocket.
The paper cut into my finger as I tore it open, heart hammering against my ribs.
I like how the feathers will match your boots. Midnight blue suits you, Nova.
The sandwich slipped from my suddenly numb hands.
The feathered headdress. My costume change had happened less than an hour ago, behind closed doors. The boots—custom-dyed to match—had only emerged from the costume department this morning.
He was here. Watching. Perhaps even now.
I forced myself to breathe, to think. The delivery boy—Dustin—had seemed genuinely surprised by my reaction. Was he an unwitting messenger? Or part of the surveillance?
Mechanically, I reached for my panic button phone, then hesitated. What would I tell Detective Alvarez? That I'd received another note? She already knew the stalker had found me. Alerting the police now would only draw more attention, perhaps expose my identity to the entire casino, while whoever it was remained unknown and at large.
I needed to handle this myself until I had something concrete to report. Something beyond flowers and flattering notes.
With shaking hands, I reapplied my stage makeup. Tonight was the first full run-through of Valentina's show for an empty house—testing lighting cues, sound levels, and transitions before tomorrow's performance with actual audience members. I couldn't fall apart now. Couldn't jeopardize my cover. Couldn't let the fear win.
By the time I joined Val backstage, I'd locked my terror behind a mask of professional composure.
"There she is," Val declared, adjusting her signature top hat. "Ready to dazzle the empty seats, estrella ?"
"As ready as I'll ever be."
"Perfect. Remember, timing is everything. I promise we'll have you floating as calm as a swan above the audience in a sea of glitter and rhinestones before the week is out."
The next ninety minutes passed in a blur of costume changes, forced smiles, and precisely timed entrances. Despite my inner turmoil, muscle memory carried me through the complicated choreography. I appeared where needed, vanished on cue, and managed not to trip over a single set piece—a significant improvement over yesterday's rehearsal.
Performing to an empty theater, however, proved unexpectedly unnerving. Two thousand vacant seats stared back at us like silent witnesses. The cavernous space swallowed our movements, the darkness beyond the stage lights concealing any number of watchers.
Was he out there? Sitting in the shadows, noting every move, every costume change, every moment I believed myself unseen?
During the finale—Val's signature illusion involving a flaming cage and my "teleportation" to the theater's upper balcony—I scanned the empty seats from my elevated position. The theater's darkness revealed nothing, but the persistent itch between my shoulder blades told me I wasn't merely performing for technicians and stagehands.
"Excellent energy," Val declared when the house lights came up. "Though your smile during the levitation looked more like a grimace. Remember—seduction, not constipation."
"Sorry. Just nervous."
"Don't be. No one died during rehearsal today, which makes it a success by industry standards." She squeezed my shoulder. "Take thirty minutes, then we'll run the flash-powder sequence once more. I want to adjust the timing before we add the doves tomorrow."
I retreated beneath the stage to the props area, seeking a moment alone to collect myself. The subterranean maze of corridors beneath the theater housed everything from mechanical lifts to animal enclosures for the various exotic creatures that appeared in Val's act. Unlike the sleek public areas of the Jade Petal, this underground warren remained utilitarian—concrete floors, exposed pipes, and the persistent hum of machinery creating a stark contrast to the gilded luxury above.
I'd ducked behind a rack of costumes when a familiar voice drifted from around the corner.
"The timing's wrong. Thursday's too soon."
Roman King. The dealer whose eyes seemed to see straight through my disguise.
I froze, straining to hear the rest of his conversation.
"I understand the urgency, but rushing creates mistakes. We need more surveillance on the secondary targets." A pause. "Yes, I've noted the connection. No, I haven't established the extent of involvement."
Who was he talking to? And what "connection" had he noted?
"Understood. I'll maintain position until further instructions."
Maintain position? Instructions? The phrasing struck me as odd for a casino dealer.
I was about to retreat when my elbow knocked against a metal prop, sending it clattering to the floor. The conversation abruptly ceased.
"Hello?" Roman called. "Someone there?"
I considered fleeing but knew it would only make me look suspicious. Instead, I stepped around the metal rack, forcing a casual smile.
"Sorry. Just looking for a quiet spot to review cues."
Roman stood alone, phone nowhere in sight, his expression shifting from wariness to recognition. "Nova. Didn't expect anyone down here."
"Clearly." I aimed for lightness. "Secret gambling tips? Or just avoiding the chaos upstairs?"
Something unreadable flickered across his face. "Just checking in with an old friend. Reception's better down here for some reason."
He was lying.
I'd spent three years working with attorneys, learning to spot the subtle tells that betrayed deception—the fractional pause before answering, the too-smooth explanation, the controlled stillness.
What was Roman King hiding?
We stood in charged silence, each assessing the other. In the dim backstage lighting, his features seemed sharper, more dangerous. The casino dealer's polished charm had receded, revealing something harder beneath. Something that matched the alertness in his eyes.
"Your rehearsal looked good," he said finally, taking a step closer. "I caught the finale from the sound booth."
"Spying on the competition?" I aimed for teasing, but anxiety sharpened the words.
"Appreciating the artistry." Another step closer, erasing the professional distance between us. "Though I'd hardly call myself competition. Just a dealer passing time between shifts."
"Just a dealer," I echoed, not believing it for a second. There was too much calculation in those amber eyes. Too much power in the way he moved. "And I'm just an assistant."
His mouth curved into a knowing half-smile. "We all have our roles, don't we?"
My pulse jumped. Did he know? Had my disguise somehow failed?
Before I could respond, he reached toward me. I tensed, but his fingers merely brushed a feather from my shoulder, the touch whisper-light yet electric. His hand lingered near my collarbone, not quite touching but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin.
"Midnight blue," he murmured. "It suits you."
The same words from the note. My breath caught.
Could Roman be my stalker? The timing of his appearance at the Jade Petal, his admitted presence at my rehearsal, his cryptic conversation...
Yet something didn't fit. The notes had started weeks before I'd ever set foot in the casino. Before I'd become Nova.
His gaze dropped to my lips, and rational thought faltered. Despite my suspicions, despite my fear, my body responded to his proximity with embarrassing immediacy. Heat bloomed across my skin. My lips parted involuntarily.
He leaned closer, the space between us charged with dangerous possibility.
"You're not what you appear to be," he said softly. "Are you, Nova?"
"Neither are you," I whispered back.
For a suspended moment, the secrets between us seemed to vibrate in the narrow space separating our bodies. His eyes darkened, and I knew with startling certainty that he was going to kiss me. Knew equally that I would let him, despite every instinct warning against it.
His hand rose to cup my cheek, thumb brushing lightly across my lower lip. The touch sent electricity cascading through me, awakening sensations I'd forgotten existed. I leaned into his palm, pulse thundering in my ears.
"Nova?" Valentina's voice shattered the moment. "You down here? We need to reset for the finale!"
Roman stepped back immediately, professional distance reinstated between one heartbeat and the next. The transition was so smooth, so complete, that it only heightened my curiosity—and my arousal.
"You should go," he said, voice low. "Wouldn't want to keep the audience waiting."
"There is no audience," I reminded him. "Just empty seats and shadows."
Something like concern flickered across his features. "No seat is ever truly empty in this place, Nova. Don’t trust what you think you see. Remember that."
The cryptic warning raised goosebumps along my arms, but before I could question him further, the heavy clatter of approaching footsteps forced another retreat.
"There you are!" Val exclaimed, rounding the corner with a flurry of scarlet cape. She paused, taking in Roman's presence with raised eyebrows. "Mr. King. Interesting choice of break location."
"Just passing through," he said smoothly. "Your assistant was kind enough to point me toward the employee exit."
Val's skeptical look made it clear she didn't believe him for a second, but she merely shrugged. "Then we won't keep you. Nova, we need to reset. The doves are getting restless."
I followed her back toward the stage, acutely aware of Roman's eyes on me as we departed. The almost-kiss lingered on my skin like a promise—or a threat. I couldn't decide which was more dangerous.
The remainder of rehearsal passed without incident, though my concentration remained fractured. Every shadow in the wings seemed to hold potential watchers. Every unexpected sound made me flinch. By the time Val called the final cut, my nerves were stretched to breaking.
"You did well," she assured me as we walked backstage. "Tomorrow we add the live audience. Just remember—"
"They're watching my hands, not my face," I finished.
Val smiled. "Quick study. I daresay you'll survive yet. At least, I’m betting on it."
After she left, I made a final trip to my dressing room to collect my things. The confrontation with Roman had temporarily overshadowed my stalker fears, but as I approached my door, anxiety resurfaced. Would another rose be waiting? Another note with details that proved I was never truly alone?
The room appeared untouched, exactly as I'd left it. Relief washed through me as I gathered my bag and street clothes. Perhaps I'd earned a reprieve, however brief.
My phone—my real phone, not the burner—chimed with a message notification as I headed for the exit.
Unknown number. One attachment.
I hesitated before opening it, dread pooling in my stomach.
The photo loaded: me on stage, arms extended in the levitation pose from tonight's rehearsal. The image had been taken from the back of the theater. The timestamp showed it had been captured less than thirty minutes ago.
A text followed: Beautiful performance, Nova. I can't wait for our private show.
I nearly dropped the phone, ice replacing the blood in my veins. He hadn't just been watching. He'd been photographing. Documenting. Getting closer.
As panic threatened to overwhelm me, Roman's warning echoed in my mind: No seat is ever truly empty in this place.
How right he was. And how terrifying to realize that in a place built on illusion and deception, I couldn't even trust the darkness to hide me.