Chapter 3 – Elara
The mirror’s cracked at the top left corner. The line splits my reflection in two, and I can’t decide which side looks more exhausted.
I swipe the glitter off my cheek, the pad of my thumb already stained with the mix of powder and sweat. It doesn’t come off clean. It never does. Not even with the wipes. It’s like the shimmer has burrowed into my skin.
The music from the club still hums through the wall—bass-heavy and flat. The last set wrapped an hour ago, but a few girls stayed to hustle VIPs for private dances. Not my gig.
I’ve got my own noise to deal with.
My chain swings every time I shift. It’s restless tonight, like it knows something’s coming.
I lean closer to the mirror, roll my shoulder, and press into the old scar just below my ribcage. That bastard ache again. It’s dull now but still there. Like a bruise you forgot about until someone touches it too hard.
Nico’s voice plays back in my head. “I want loyalty.” Like it’s a choice I can spare.
And then the guy’s guts hit the ground and Nico just... stood there. Calm. Efficient. Like cleaning up messes is just part of his job.
It wasn’t a pitch. It was a warning.
He didn’t say what he’d do if I said no. Didn’t have to.
I toss the wipe into the overflowing trash and tug off my bra from under the tank top, letting the wet elastic snap loose from my ribs. I exhale. Not relief—just less restriction.
The door creaks open behind me.
“Still here?” Giorgia says, voice soft, dragging like smoke.
She’s got a towel over her neck, hair damp, lipstick wiped clean but glitter still crusting her collarbone. Her heels are off. She walks like her feet hate her.
“Yeah,” I mutter, grabbing another wipe. “Wanted a minute without hands trying to grope me or men asking if I come with the stage.”
She chuckles, then nudges my shoulder lightly as she walks past to her locker.
“Tough crowd tonight,” she says.
“Same crowd. Different stink.”
She hums, then tilts her head toward me.
“Word is, Drago’s been asking around.”
I go still.
She keeps digging in her locker like she didn’t just toss a grenade on the floor.
I roll my eyes. “That right?”
“Yeah.” She pulls out a shirt and sniffs it, winces, and tosses it back in. “You made an impression.”
“Well, so do grease fires. Doesn’t mean you bring one home.”
Giorgia looks over her shoulder. “El. This isn’t nothing.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“But you’re pretending it is.”
I toss the used wipe onto the counter, wipe my hands on my thighs.
“He’s just sniffing around,” I say. “Guys like him don’t stick with dancers unless they’re bored or trying to stir shit.”
“Exactly. Which is why you should care.”
She finally looks at me, really looks. Her gaze is steady, not accusing—just... knowing.
“This ain’t about lap dances,” she says. “This is about power.”
“I’m not chasing that.”
“No. But power might be chasing you.”
I lean forward and grab my bag from the counter, unzip it like the noise will drown her out. She doesn’t push. She never does. Giorgia’s smart that way. She plants things. Then watches to see what grows.
I don’t like what’s growing.
The door opens again.
My gut tightens before I even turn.
Vince.
The bastard doesn’t knock, doesn’t announce. Just strolls in like he owns the damn club. Maybe he does. In pieces, anyway.
He’s in a navy suit, shirt collar open, no tie. Too clean for a place like this. The kind of clean that means he doesn’t stay long enough to sweat.
“Ladies,” he says. “Hope I’m not interrupting the beauty routine.”
Giorgia moves past him without looking and disappears into the shower room.
Coward.
I turn back to the mirror. “If you’re looking for a private show, the VIP lounge is downstairs.”
Vince leans against the wall, arms folded. “I’m not here for a dance.”
“Then get to the point.”
He smiles. I hate the way he does it—like every word out of his mouth is a favor you didn’t ask for.
“Just wanted to check in,” he says. “Word’s out that Nico’s been taking a... personal interest.”
I meet his eyes through the mirror.
“Didn’t realize my social life was part of club policy.”
“It isn’t. But Nico’s plans tend to spill over.”
I grab my shirt and pull it over my head, still watching him through the glass.
“You worried I’m going to distract him?”
“I’m not worried,” Vince says. “I’m realistic.”
He pushes off the wall and steps in closer, voice soft but tight.
“Guys like him—fixers, soldiers—they fall for damaged girls like you because they think they’re rescuing someone. Makes them feel noble. Makes them feel clean.”
“Is that what this is?” I ask. “You coming in here to warn me I’m the bad decision?”
He grins. “I’m telling you to think before you leap. That’s all.”
“You don’t strike me as the concerned type.”
“I’m a realist,” he says again. “And I’ve seen people get chewed up trying to be more than what they are.”
My chest tightens, and not just from the scar.
I stand up.
“He talk to you?” I ask. “About bringing me in?”
“Not in detail.”
“But enough.”
“Enough to raise an eyebrow.”
I step closer, toe to toe.
“You’re not raising eyebrows. You’re testing the leash. Seeing if you can tug it before he notices.”
He lifts his hands. “I’m just offering perspective.”
“Right,” I say. “Well, here’s mine—if Nico wants something from me, he’ll say it himself. And if you’re scared of that? You should be.”
Vince smiles again, like none of this touches him.
“Careful, Elara. Pride’s a funny thing. It fills your chest right before it gets you buried.”
He leaves before I can come up with a better reply.
Not that I would’ve said it.
The door clicks behind him. The room feels ten degrees hotter.
Giorgia pokes her head back out from the other side.
“What the hell was that?”
“Poison,” I mutter, grabbing my things. “In a suit.”
The door slams open again, this time hard enough to rattle the cracked mirror.
“Move, bitch!”
The voice hits sharp. Slurred. Too loud for the room. One of the security goons from the floor—broad neck, thicker gut, a clipboard in one hand and no concept of personal space in the other. I think his name’s Cal or Carl. Doesn’t matter.
He barrels toward the back lockers like I’m not standing in his path.
Wrong move.
“Try again,” I say, not even shifting my stance. “Maybe without the attitude this time.”
He barely registers it—just snorts and keeps coming.
So I snap a kick to the inside of his shin. Hard.
There’s a crack. A real one.
He drops to the floor with a shout that’s more insulted than injured. The clipboard clatters beside him, papers scattering across the tile.
“Fucking psycho—!”
“Wrong room for tantrums,” I snap. “And wrong bitch.”
He’s still curled, cursing, rubbing his leg like that’s going to undo the damage.
From the other side of the lockers, Giorgia howls with laughter.
“God, I missed that sound,” she calls out.
I grin. Can’t help it. It’s a rare moment, sharp and clean.
“He deserved it,” I say.
“Always does.”
Carl—or whatever—keeps cussing under his breath. I step around him like he’s trash no one remembered to take out.
I grab my jacket from the hook. It’s cracked faux leather, old stitching down the sleeves, pocket half torn. It’s not pretty. It fits. That’s enough.
Vince’s words hang around like the damn humidity. “I’ve seen people get chewed up trying to be more than what they are.”
He said it like he meant well. Like he was doing me a favor.
Like I should thank him for the warning.
But what he really meant was: stay in your lane.
I zip the jacket halfway, pull the hood up even though I’m still sweating.
“No one owns me,” I say under my breath.
Not to Giorgia. Not to Carl, who’s still limping toward the door. Not even to myself, really.
It’s a reminder.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, nod at Giorgia, and push open the dressing room door.
The hallway outside buzzes with the leftover stink of the club—cheap beer, perfume, desperation. Lights overhead flicker like they’re tired. The exit sign glows red at the end of the corridor.
I pause.
Just for a second.
My fingers tighten around the strap on my bag.
There’s no one in the hall. But it feels like there is. Like a shape in the corner of my vision that never fully forms.
Nico’s name isn’t on the walls. He’s not standing there in the shadows.
But I feel him.
That stare from earlier. The way he moved. Calm. Exact. Like he saw through the cage and past the glitter and filed me away into a folder labeled Potential Weapon.
He didn’t ask me to be his. Didn’t hint at anything personal.
That’s what makes it worse.
He didn’t look at me like I was beautiful. Or broken.
He looked at me like I was useful.
And that kind of attention?
That’s harder to ignore.
I make it to the exit and push the door open, into the night.
The club’s back lot is empty. Rain’s still falling, thin enough to feel but not enough to soak. Puddles ripple under the glow of the flickering neon. The dumpster reeks. The asphalt’s cracked.
I head toward the sidewalk without stopping.
The humidity presses on my skin like breath.
I reach the boardwalk and turn left. No plan. No destination.
Just forward.
My boots hit wood. The ocean’s close enough to hear, waves pushing in rhythm against the shore.
I let them fill the space in my head.
The boardwalk’s mostly empty. A couple arguing by the edge, too drunk to care who’s listening. A guy sleeping under an awning. A group of girls farther down, heels in hand, laughing too loudly.
I walk past them all.
My fingers brush the padlock around my neck.
It’s cold.
I remember when it wasn’t. When it burned against my skin like a warning.
Now it’s just metal.
I stop under a streetlamp. Not for the light. Just to breathe.
I think of the alley. The blood. The way Nico stepped in—not like a knight, not even like a man protecting a woman. More like a wolf clearing his territory.
I hated how calm he was.
I hated how calm I was.
But I can’t stop replaying it.
The way he looked at me.
Like I wasn’t weak.
Like I wasn’t a charity case.
I don’t say yes.
Not out loud.
Not to him.
But I haven’t said no either.
And that hesitation?
That’s the part that scares me most.
Because no matter how much I remind myself I don’t belong to anyone, there’s a part of me—the part that got out, that survived, that still itches for something real—that can’t stop asking what it would mean to be chosen not out of pity or attraction.
But because I might actually matter.