Chapter Five
Celia
"How's Waikiki treating you, sweetheart? You look a little pale for someone spending all day on the beach."
My mother's concerned face filled my phone screen. I adjusted my position on the windowsill of my room, making sure the backdrop showed nothing of the Jade Petal's employee housing. Instead, I'd arranged a tropical-themed scarf over the curtain rod and propped a guidebook to Hawaii conspicuously beside me.
"Just being careful with sunscreen, Mom. You know how I burn." I forced brightness into my voice. "The weather's been gorgeous."
"And you're really enjoying this vacation?" The slight pause conveyed volumes of maternal skepticism. In my thirty years, I'd never taken an impromptu trip anywhere. Planning, preparation, and detailed itineraries were my hallmarks, not spontaneous island getaways.
"It's exactly what I needed." I angled the phone to hide the shadows under my eyes, poorly concealed by makeup. "Sometimes you have to break routine."
"You do look different," she admitted, peering closer at the screen. "Your hair..."
I touched the burgundy highlights that were part of my Nova disguise. "Just trying something new."
"Well, it suits you. More vibrant than your usual style." She meant it as a compliment, but the observation stung. Had I really been so drab, so predictable before?
"When are you coming to Chicago?" she continued. "Your father's birthday next month—"
"Still figuring out my schedule," I interrupted, guilt twisting in my chest. Another lie piled atop the growing mountain of deception. I had no idea where I'd be next month, or if I'd even be able to travel safely. "The firm's been really supportive of this break, but there's a big case coming up."
I hated the falsehoods spilling from my lips, hated that my parents now inhabited the same twilight world of partial truths I'd been forced into. They believed their daughter was sipping mai tais in Hawaii, not hiding from a stalker in the bowels of a Las Vegas casino.
"Are you sure everything's okay, Celia? You seem..." My mother trailed off, those intuitive maternal sensors picking up distress signals despite my best efforts.
"Just tired from yesterday's hike." I mustered a smile. "I should get ready for my snorkeling excursion."
We exchanged goodbyes with promises to call again soon. The moment the connection ended, I slumped against the window frame, my carefully constructed vacation persona crumbling.
The phone buzzed in my hand—a text from Detective Alvarez: Daily check-in. Status?
I typed back: Still breathing. Then, remembering protocol: No further contact from subject. Current location secure.
Her response came seconds later: Maintain cover. Investigating potential connections to previous case.
Previous case. Miles had speculated the stalker might be tied to one of our more dangerous prosecutions—but which one? The Licata trial was the biggest, but there had been others. I’d helped prepare evidence in at least half a dozen cases involving organized crime, fraud, or violent defendants. Any of them might have taken issue with my work—or worse, seen me as the weak link to exploit.
A glance at my watch showed I had forty minutes until morning rehearsal. Just enough time to prepare for another day of pretending to be Nova Sinclair, magician's assistant and decidedly not the legal professional who helped dismantle a crime syndicate.
My thoughts drifted to Roman King as I dressed. The rooftop kiss replayed in my mind—the firmness of his lips, the subtle scent of his cologne, the electricity that had sparked between us. For a brief moment, I'd forgotten about stalkers and hiding and fear. I'd just been a woman kissing an attractive man beneath the Vegas stars.
But the moment had shattered with his cryptic warning: Be careful tomorrow night. The audience isn't always who they appear to be.
What did he know? And more importantly, who was Roman King, really? The question haunted me as I made my way to rehearsal.
"Inhale deeply, then hold your breath. The compression happens fast."
Val cinched the laces of the quick-release corset with expert hands. The midnight-blue brocade garment, embellished with silver stars and crystal beading, compressed my rib cage instantly.
"Jesus," I gasped as air evacuated my lungs.
"Beauty is pain, carino ." Val smirked, but her eyes held empathy. "Now, the quick-release works on tension principles. When you pull the hidden cord at your right hip, the entire structure loosens at once. It's both a costume piece and an escape mechanism."
I nodded, memorizing the location of the nearly invisible cord tucked along the corset's seam. "Seems like a lot of engineering for a costume change."
"It's not just for costume changes." Val's voice lowered, her usual theatrical flair giving way to seriousness. "Fifteen years ago, I was performing at the Mirage. A fan became... fixated. Sent gifts, then demands, then threats. Security dismissed it as typical celebrity obsession."
I stilled, recognizing parallels to my own situation.
"One night, he managed to get backstage, cornered me in a dressing room with a knife." She gestured to a thin scar along her collarbone, nearly invisible beneath her stage makeup. "I was wearing a standard corset. Couldn't move, couldn't breathe properly, couldn't fight. After that, I designed these. Never performed without a quick-release option since."
"Did they catch him?" I asked, a chill running through me despite the stuffy backstage heat.
"Eventually. But I learned an important lesson—in our line of work, we must maintain the illusion of vulnerability while never actually being vulnerable." She tugged the final lace into place. "Try the release."
I pulled the hidden cord. Instantly, the corset loosened, allowing full lung expansion and unrestricted movement.
"Perfect." Val nodded approvingly. "Five-second release time. The audience sees the beautiful assistant in distress; only you know freedom is a single movement away."
Our eyes met in the mirror, and something unspoken passed between us—woman to woman, survivor to potential victim. For a moment, I wondered if Val somehow knew my secret, if she'd recognized another woman in disguise.
"I know you're not really a performer," she said abruptly, confirming my suspicion.
My heart stuttered. "I—"
She waved away my panic. "Relax. Your background doesn't concern me. Everyone in Vegas is reinventing themselves. Some just have better reasons than others." She straightened my corset with crisp efficiency. "But I sense you're running from something. Someone. Am I wrong?"
I considered lying, then realized the futility. "No."
"I thought so. The way you check exits, catalog faces, startle at sudden movements—classic prey behavior." She met my eyes again. "Listen carefully: my theater is sovereign territory. Whatever's chasing you stops at my stage door. Understand?"
"It's complicated," I managed.
"It always is." Her hand squeezed my shoulder briefly. "Just remember—quick release, flash powder, trapdoors. I've built escape routes into every aspect of the performance. Use them if needed."
Before I could respond, a stagehand called for Val's presence on set. She swept out in a billow of scarlet cape, leaving me staring at my corseted reflection, wondering how many other people had seen through my flimsy disguise.
The employee cafeteria buzzed with the controlled chaos of mid-shift breaks—dealers counting their morning tips, housekeeping staff grabbing quick meals before tackling the next block of rooms, entertainment personnel in various states of costume and makeup.
I navigated the crowd carefully, tray balanced in one hand. Finding an empty table in the back corner, I settled in with my salad and coffee, using lunch as an opportunity to observe without being observed. After Val's revelations about her stalker, my own paranoia had intensified. Was my pursuer here among the casino staff? Someone I passed daily without recognition?
"Mind if I join you?"
Roman King stood beside my table, his own lunch tray in hand—a sandwich and black coffee. Up close, in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the cafeteria, he looked tired. Faint shadows beneath his eyes suggested the same sleepless night I'd experienced.
"Free country," I replied, gesturing to the empty chair across from me.
He sat with fluid grace that belied his exhaustion. "Busy morning?"
"Corset training. Apparently, I need to master the art of breathing without actually breathing."
A half-smile curved his mouth. "The illusion of impossibility. Val's specialty."
"Among other things." I studied him over my coffee cup. "You look like you could use a second dose of caffeine."
"Occupational hazard. High-limit room ran late."
I nodded, not believing him for a second. Whatever had kept Roman awake, it hadn't been overtime at the poker tables. The same vigilance I'd noticed before radiated from him—a coiled readiness beneath his casual demeanor.
"Want to see something?" he asked suddenly.
"Depends what it is."
He reached into his pocket, extracting a deck of cards still in its sealed wrapper. "Dealer's privilege. Always have a fresh deck."
I arched an eyebrow. "Planning to teach the magician's assistant card tricks?"
"Something like that." He broke the seal, shuffling the cards with hypnotic precision. His hands moved with mesmerizing fluidity, the cards dancing between his fingers.
I'd seen professional dealers before, but Roman's handling went beyond technical skill. There was artistry in his movements, an effortless command that suggested years of practice beyond mere casino work.
"Pick a card," he said, fanning the deck face down.
"Seriously? That's the oldest trick in the book."
His amber eyes glinted with challenge. "Humor me."
I drew a card—the queen of hearts—and examined it without revealing it to him.
"Now place it anywhere in the deck." He held the stack toward me.
I slid the card into the middle of the deck, watching him closely for sleight-of-hand techniques. He shuffled again, his movements too quick to track.
"Your card," he announced, flipping the top card to reveal the queen of hearts, "represents what we show the world. The face we present."
I tried to mask my surprise. "Impressive, but basic illusion."
"The real trick," he continued, ignoring my deflection, "is what's happening while everyone watches the card." His free hand moved to my wrist, turning it gently to reveal my watch. "Like the fact that I've reset your watch ten minutes ahead while you focused on the cards."
Sure enough, my watch now displayed a time ten minutes faster than the cafeteria clock. I hadn't felt him touch my wrist at all.
"Misdirection," I said, genuine admiration coloring my voice. "The fundamental principle of both magic and—"
"Deception," he finished, his eyes holding mine.
The word hung between us, laden with implication. We were both engaged in elaborate performances, both hiding behind carefully constructed facades. The awareness created an intimate tension, electric and dangerous.
"Why are you showing me this?" I asked quietly.
"To demonstrate that what we focus on isn't always what we should be watching." He collected the cards with a single sweep of his hand. "Sometimes the real action happens in the periphery, where attention rarely falls."
"Is that a warning or advice?"
"Both, perhaps." His fingers brushed mine as he passed the queen of hearts to me. "Keep this. A reminder that even hearts have two faces—one seen, one hidden."
Something in his tone sent a shiver through me—part attraction, part caution. Roman King was playing a game I didn't fully understand, with rules I hadn't learned.
"I should get back," I said, rising. "Afternoon rehearsal."
He nodded, standing as well. "Be careful, Nova. The most convincing illusions are the ones we don't recognize as illusions."
I left the cafeteria with the queen of hearts tucked in my pocket and the unsettling certainty that Roman knew far more about me—and my situation—than he should.
The velvet box was on my makeup counter when I returned to my dressing room.
Small, square, wrapped in midnight blue ribbon—a jewelry box, the kind that typically held rings. No card, no explanation for its presence. Just the silent certainty that someone had again breached my private space.
I stared at it, nausea building in my throat. After last night's anonymous photo, I'd expected another message, another reminder that I wasn't safe. But this—this small, elegant box—somehow terrified me more than previous threats.
With trembling fingers, I untied the ribbon. The box opened on silent hinges.
Inside, nestled on black velvet, lay a severed rose stem. No bloom, just the cut stalk with its vicious thorns intact. Beneath it, written in meticulous script on cream cardstock, five words:
All magic ends in blood.
The room tilted. I stumbled backward, colliding with the costume rack. Bile rose in my throat—hot, bitter, unstoppable. I barely made it to the small, attached bathroom before emptying my stomach, the salad from lunch reappearing in violent heaves.
When the spasms subsided, I sank to the floor, pressing my forehead against the cool tile wall. The message wasn't just a threat; it was a promise. The escalation from observation to invasion of my apartment to following me to the Jade Petal now culminated in the explicit threat of violence.
My breath came in shallow gasps. The walls of the tiny bathroom seemed to contract, the air thinning until each inhalation felt insufficient. Classic panic attack symptoms—I recognized them clinically even as I succumbed to them physically.
I needed to call Detective Alvarez. Needed to alert security. Needed to tell someone, anyone, that the predator had found me again. I must’ve dropped my phone back into my bag after texting Alvarez. Now it felt miles away. A knock at the dressing room door sent fresh terror spiraling through me.
"Nova?" Roman's voice. "You left your script at the table. I thought you might need it for rehearsal."
When I didn't answer, the knob turned. He must have heard my ragged breathing because he crossed the room with swift purpose, appearing in the bathroom doorway.
"Shit," he muttered, taking in my huddled form and tear-streaked face. "What happened?"
I couldn't speak, could only gesture weakly toward the makeup counter. He followed my gaze, spotting the velvet box. His expression hardened as he examined its contents.
Without a word, he returned to the bathroom, crouching beside me. "Look at me," he said, voice gentle but commanding. "Focus on my eyes."
I dragged my gaze to his.
"We're going to breathe together, okay? Four-count box breathing. I need you to inhale through your nose for four seconds." His hand found mine, pressing my palm against his chest so I could feel his steady heartbeat. "Follow my count. One, two, three, four."
I struggled to match his rhythm, my lungs still seized with panic.
"Now hold for four. One, two, three, four." His eyes never left mine, anchoring me in the present. "Exhale through your mouth, four counts. One, two, three, four."
We repeated the pattern—inhale, hold, exhale, hold—until my breathing steadied and the room stopped spinning. Only then did Roman speak again.
"Military technique," he explained, still holding my hand against his chest. "Works on the vagus nerve to interrupt the panic response."
"Useful skill for a casino dealer," I managed, voice raspy.
Something flickered in his expression—wariness, perhaps recognition that he'd revealed more than intended. "Picked it up during a deployment."
"You were military." It wasn't a question.
"Another lifetime." He deflected smoothly. "Can you stand?"
With his support, I rose on unsteady legs. He guided me to the small sofa in the main dressing area, positioning himself between me and the velvet box as if to shield me from its presence.
"I need to call security," I said.
"Wait." He glanced at the box again. "This isn't your first threat, is it?"
The directness of his question startled me. "What makes you think that?"
"Your reaction. Too specific for random harassment." His gaze was penetrating. "Someone's been targeting you. Following you."
I hesitated, caught between the need for secrecy and the overwhelming desire to confide in someone—anyone—about the terror I'd been living with.
"You can trust me," he said quietly.
Could I? Everything about Roman suggested hidden depths, concealed motives. Yet he'd found me in my moment of vulnerability and helped without question. His presence brought a strange security I hadn't felt since going into hiding.
Before I could decide how much to reveal, my dressing room door burst open. Riley Cho rushed in, face flushed with urgency.
"There you are! Val's looking everywhere—" They stopped abruptly, registering Roman's presence and my obvious distress. "What's happening here?"
"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just feeling a little sick."
Riley's eyes narrowed suspiciously, darting between us. "Well, pull yourself together fast. Technical run starts in ten, and Val's already in a mood because the new lighting sequence isn't cooperating."
"I'll be right there."
As Riley departed, I turned back to Roman. "I should go."
He nodded, but his expression remained troubled. "We'll finish this conversation later."
"There's nothing to finish."
"Nova." His hand caught mine, warm and steady. "Whatever's happening, whoever sent that—" he gestured toward the velvet box, "—you don't have to face it alone."
The sincerity in his voice nearly broke my carefully maintained composure. How long had it been since I'd felt truly safe? Since I'd been able to trust another person with the weight of my fear?
"I'll be fine," I lied, pulling away. "It's just a sick joke."
His expression made it clear he didn't believe me, but he stepped back, allowing me space. "I'll be watching the rehearsal from the sound booth. If you need anything—"
"I won't." I gathered my script and a water bottle, steeling myself for the performance ahead. "But thank you. For the breathing thing."
He nodded once, then surprised me by carefully collecting the velvet box. "I'll dispose of this where it won't be found. Better than leaving it for housekeeping to discover."
Relief washed through me. "Thank you."
As he left, I caught a glimpse of his expression—not the concern I expected, but something harder, more calculating. For a moment, Roman King looked less like a sympathetic casino dealer and more like someone accustomed to assessing threats.
I filed the observation away as I hurried to the stage, wondering not for the first time who Roman really was—and why he seemed so invested in my safety.
"Light cue seventeen after the drum roll, not during," Val instructed from center stage. "I need complete darkness for three seconds before Nova appears in the levitation rig."
The technical director nodded, making adjustments to his tablet. Around us, the theater hummed with pre-show preparations—sound engineers testing levels, stagehands positioning props, lighting technicians programming complex sequences.
I stood offstage in the midnight-blue corset and matching skirt, waiting for my cue. The quick-release mechanism pressed reassuringly against my hip—a small comfort after the terror of the threatening note. Val had been right. Knowing escape was a movement away provided a security I desperately needed.
"Places for the finale," Val called. "Full technical run-through, no stops unless absolutely necessary."
I moved to my mark, focusing on the sequence ahead rather than the morning's disturbing events. The finale involved my "levitation" above the stage while Val created the illusion of passing solid metal hoops around my suspended body. The trick relied on precise timing, hidden supports, and carefully angled lighting to convince the audience that I floated unsupported in midair.
The music swelled—dramatic orchestral pieces that Val had specially commissioned for her show. Lights dimmed to a single spotlight on center stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Val intoned, her performance voice carrying to the back of the empty theater, "what you are about to witness defies the very laws of nature. Gravity itself will bend to the power of—"
A sharp metallic crack interrupted her patter. Then another, louder and more ominous.
I looked up instinctively as a third crack echoed through the theater—and saw the massive lighting grid directly above Val begin to tilt at an unnatural angle.
"Val!" I screamed. "Move!"
She reacted instantly, diving sideways as two thousand pounds of lights, metal framework, and electrical equipment crashed onto the stage with a deafening impact. Sparks flew. Glass shattered. The sound reverberated through the theater like a bomb detonation.
For a moment, stunned silence gripped everyone present. Then chaos erupted—technicians shouting, stagehands rushing forward, security personnel materializing from the wings.
"Is anyone hurt?" The stage manager's voice cut through the pandemonium.
By some miracle, Val had cleared the impact zone. She stood shakily at the edge of the destruction, face pale beneath her makeup, but apparently uninjured.
"What the hell happened?" she demanded, her usual composure shattered.
The technical director approached the fallen grid cautiously. "The mounting bolts... they're sheared clean through." He held up a metal fragment for inspection. "This isn't equipment failure. These were deliberately cut."
Ice flooded my veins. I knew instantly, with bone-deep certainty, that the sabotaged lighting grid was connected to the velvet box. The message played through my mind: All magic ends in blood.
This hadn't been a threat. It had been a warning of what was coming.
Security personnel flooded the stage, Enzo Grimaldi at their center. His eyes swept the destruction with cold efficiency before landing on me with an intensity that sent warning signals flaring through my system.
"Everyone to the green room," he ordered. "Now. Full security lockdown until we determine exactly what happened here."
As I followed the shaken crew offstage, I caught sight of Roman watching from the sound booth, his expression unreadable at this distance. But his rigid posture conveyed what words couldn't—this was no accident.
The emergency security meeting that followed was a blur of questions, theories, and reassurances that felt increasingly hollow. Enzo stood before the assembled cast and crew, projecting calm authority that didn't reach his eyes.
"We've reviewed the preliminary evidence," he announced. "This appears to be a case of targeted sabotage. The bolts securing the lighting grid were partially sawed through—enough to weaken the structure while leaving it apparently intact until the vibration of the sound system triggered the collapse."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered staff. Val, still visibly shaken, spoke what everyone was thinking: "Someone tried to kill me."
Enzo's expression remained neutral. "We don't know the intended target or motive yet. Until we do, we're implementing enhanced security protocols. Additional cameras will be installed throughout the performance areas. Security personnel will conduct regular sweeps. All staff will use buddy systems when moving through non-public areas."
His gaze swept the room, lingering momentarily on me before continuing. "We will find who did this. In the meantime, tomorrow night's performance will proceed as scheduled."
Protests erupted immediately. Val silenced them with a raised hand. "Enzo's right. The show continues. We'll adjust the staging to work without the main lighting grid."
"But someone tried to kill you," Riley objected. "We can't just pretend this didn't happen."
"No one is pretending anything," Enzo interjected. "But we won't give whoever did this the satisfaction of shutting us down. The Jade Petal does not bow to intimidation."
As the meeting disbanded, I remained seated, paralyzed by the implications. The stalker who'd followed me from my real life hadn't just found me at the Jade Petal. They were escalating to potentially lethal sabotage.
I watched Enzo conferring with his security team, his demeanor coolly professional. He was saying all the right things, making all the right promises about finding the culprit and ensuring everyone's safety.
Yet something in his manner raised alarm bells in my mind. The way his eyes had lingered on me specifically. The subtle tension in his posture when addressing the sabotage.
A chilling possibility formed: what if Enzo already knew who was responsible? What if his promises of additional security were theater, not protection?
As if sensing my scrutiny, he looked up, meeting my gaze across the room. No surprise registered in his expression—only cold assessment, as if measuring my potential threat level.
In that moment, with absolute certainty, I knew Enzo Grimaldi was lying.
The sabotage had been deliberate. The target had been Val—or perhaps me. And the head of security, the very person tasked with protecting us, knew more than he was revealing.
I was trapped in a casino where someone wanted me dead, with nowhere left to run, and no way to know who I could trust.