Chapter 30
Katherine
The club thrums like a living thing—music pulsing, lights flickering, dancers moving like smoke. But Kath barely feels it. The rhythm that once set her blood on fire now barely reaches her skin.
She moves on autopilot. The dressing room, the change of clothes, the ritual she once worshipped—now hollow, mechanical. Like someone performing a sacred dance who's forgotten why it mattered.
She used to love this. The transformation. The power. Watching Katherine Winters disappear, layer by layer—until only Blondie remained. Blondie didn't care. Blondie ruled.
And no one could touch her.
But now? Now the glitter feels like a lie. The red lips, the smoky eyes—they don't shield her anymore. They just reflect a girl trying too hard to forget something she shouldn't feel at all.
Kath stares at her reflection as she draws on the liner. Watches her own hands like they belong to someone else.
The face in the mirror is flawless. But her chest? It's a war zone. Tight, aching, pulled too tight over something raw.
She hates that she's thinking about him. Still. Every time her thoughts drift to Benjamin, her stomach knots like she's bracing for a hit.
And yet— Here she is. Still haunted by the ghost of a man who touched her skin… But never reached her. Because he never touched Kath. Only Blondie.
And that? That’s on her.
She never let him see the real thing. Never gave him anything real to touch.
She kept the walls high, the mask tighter, the rules clearer than glass. Seduce, distract, deflect—never reveal.
It wasn’t him who failed her. It was her. She never gave him the chance to want her at all.
She leans in toward the mirror, adjusting a false lash with the practiced calm of a woman holding back a scream. The image staring back is flawless.
Bright lips. Dark lashes. Sculpted cheekbones. The perfect illusion.
And tonight? She hates it.
Hates that it used to feel like armor. Now it feels like chains.
But she doesn’t have time for this.
Not in this place, where weakness doesn’t pay. Where eyes are always watching and Blondie is expected to be every man’s fantasy and no one’s mess.
She exhales sharply. Her hands tremble before she forces them still. Focus. Fix it. Do your job.
Because in this world, Blondie doesn’t get to fall apart.
She doesn’t get to bleed. She smiles. She seduces, survives.
And Katherine? She has no place here.
After finishing her makeup, Kath moved behind the bar, tidying a few stray glasses and wiping down the counter—anything to keep her hands busy. She didn’t notice Ian at first, not until the familiar sound of his boots crossed the floor behind her.
She looked up just as he approached, his movements casual but purposeful as he leaned against the bar. She recognized that look—the one that said he saw through whatever facade she was trying to maintain. It made her skin prickle with unease.
"You're holding back," Ian said, arms crossed.
She didn't fully meet his eyes. Instead, adjusted her mask, fingers tracing its edge as though that simple gesture could hide the shadows beneath her eyes, the exhaustion that had settled into her bones.
"I'm fine," she replied. The lie felt different with Ian—staler, thinner, like tissue paper trying to hold back a flood. He'd always seen through her.
Ian's expression remained unimpressed. "You don't lie to me, Blondie. We both know you're better at this."
Katherine forced herself to perform—it was what she did best, after all. She curved her lips into a tight smirk, let her fingertips drift down her bodice in a silent display. A show of confidence she didn't feel.
"Maybe I'm just evolving," she offered. "More mystery. More allure."
The words hung between them, hollow and transparent.
Ian knew it. She knew it. The performance wasn't landing, and they both recognized the falsehood for what it was.
Ian exhaled slowly, his expression softening though his stance remained firm. His head tilted as he watched her, something gentle entering his gaze.
"Whatever's eating at you? Don't let it ruin you. You're stronger than that."
Katherine swallowed hard. Was she? Stronger than this? Some days, she wasn’t sure where Blondie ended and she began.
Ian straightened, his posture shifting as business slid back into place. That knowing gleam returned to his eyes, sharp as a blade she couldn't quite dodge.
"Oh, by the way. You've got a private booking tomorrow," he said, his tone deceptively casual.
Katherine's stomach turned. She'd been clear about needing space from private clients. Not since him.
"I thought I asked for a break from those," she said carefully, each word measured.
Ian shrugged, his tone light but with an edge that couldn't be missed. "And I honored that. For a while."
Smooth on the surface, sharp underneath—the warning landed anyway. Katherine stiffened, folding into herself with practiced ease.
Ian leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as his smirk sharpened with suggestion.
"But you know how it is. You don't ignore your best customers. They might take it personally."
Her frown lingered as she processed his words. Something in his tone didn't sit right—a note of something she couldn't quite place. But Ian was still the boss. She still had bills to pay.
And in this world, breaking character wasn't an option.
She nodded. Because that’s what was expected.
Blondie played the part.
Later, during a rare lull between sets, Kath let herself sink into the seat at one of the makeup vanities.
Her posture wasn’t graceful—just tired. She folded her arms on the counter and leaned forward, resting her forehead against them for a brief moment.
The lights buzzed quietly above, the murmur of backstage life a soft thrum around her.
That’s when Luna struck.
"Alright. Spill. What's going on with you?" she said, suddenly perched on the edge of the vanity beside her, arms crossed. Her tone was sharp with concern, her eyes narrowed in that no-bullshit way that made lying completely pointless.
Katherine met Luna's eyes in the mirror, schooling her features into practiced confusion. The mask slid into place as easily as breathing—the same one she'd perfected in courtrooms and boardrooms.
"What are you talking about?" she asked, her tone perfectly casual. Perfectly fake.
From the corner, Rea's voice cut through the pretense.
"That," she said, pointing directly at her face. "That fucking blank expression. You're phoning it in, babe."
Katherine's shoulders tensed slightly before she forced them to relax. She reached for her lipstick, applying it with deliberate care, buying seconds to compose herself.
"I'm just tired," she exhaled, the admission sharper and more honest than she'd intended.
Luna didn't even blink. "Bullshit," she said flatly.
The silence stretched between them, taut as a wire.
Katherine kept her eyes on her reflection, refusing to crack under their scrutiny. But then Rea shifted, her posture softening as she moved closer.
"Be honest," Rea said, her voice dropping to something gentler, more intimate. "It's a guy, isn't it?"
"Please." Katherine rolled her eyes too quickly, the dismissal coming too fast to be genuine. But even as she scoffed, she heard the slight waver in her own voice—that telltale crack of truth breaking through.
Luna leaned forward, eyes narrowing with the precision of someone who'd spotted weakness and wasn't about to let it go.
"It is. I knew it," Luna said, suspicion sharpening her tone. "You've got the heartbreak eyes."
The words hit her like a physical blow. She flinched, her body stiffening as she drew in a sharp breath she couldn't control.
The reaction was involuntary, instinctive—and damning.
She felt the air shift in the room as Rea's voice cut through the momentary silence, precise and knowing.
"Mr. S?" Rea said, the name landing like a dart finding its target.
Kath froze. Just for a second—a heartbeat, nothing more—but it was enough. Her fingers stilled against the makeup brush she'd been holding, her breath catching in her throat before she forced herself to exhale.
Luna caught the pause, her eyes softening as she leaned forward, nudging Katherine's knee gently.
"Hey," Luna said, her voice gentler now, concern replacing the teasing. "If he did something—"
"No," she cut her off, the word coming out too sharp, too fast. "He didn't do anything. He's..." Her voice faltered, something thick and painful lodging in her throat. "... He's wonderful."
The word hung in the air between them, weighted with a sadness that contradicted its meaning entirely. It was the saddest fucking "wonderful" they'd ever heard, and Kath knew it the moment it left her lips.
Luna and Rea exchanged a look—quiet concern beneath their teasing smiles. They didn't push further. They didn’t need to ask. They knew the look. The ache. The helpless, hopeless pull.
The unspoken understanding passed between them, a shared knowledge of what it meant to want someone you couldn't have.
Katherine saw it in their faces—they knew. They knew "wonderful" shouldn't sound like regret. Shouldn't taste like loss on her tongue.
But there was something else in Luna’s eyes. Something sadder. Something quieter. When she glanced toward the hallway—just for a moment—Katherine followed her gaze.
Ian.
It was subtle. A flicker of something unsaid. But it clicked.
Katherine tilted her head, curiosity flickering through the heaviness. "Wait... you and Ian?"
Luna blinked. Too fast.
"No," she said quickly, too quickly. "It's not a thing.
Not really. Just... in my head, maybe." She brushed the air with her hand like she could wave the truth away. "And it's also a secret. So—shut up."
Katherine held her hands up in mock surrender, but her expression softened. "Didn’t see that coming."
Luna's lips curved into a smile, attempting to lighten the mood.
"Ahhh. So that's what's going on with you," Luna said with a crooked smile, the tease in her voice softening into something almost gentle. Her gaze lingered on Katherine, eyes sharp but warm, like someone who knew the shape of a broken heart a little too well.
Kath groaned, pushing them away half-heartedly. "You two are insufferable."
Rea laughed—sharp and sweet, the sound cutting through the heaviness that had settled over them.
"And you, my dear," Rea said, still watching her closely,
"are whipped."
She rolled her eyes, but the gesture couldn't mask the ache in her chest. Because maybe they were right. And maybe being whipped wouldn't hurt so much if she didn't feel like she'd lost someone she never really had to begin with.
When the laughter faded and the room emptied, she was alone again. As always.
Kath stood alone in front of the dressing room mirror, the familiar ritual suddenly hollow.
She adjusted her mask with slow, mechanical fingers, the gold filigree catching the light like it always did.
She’d done this hundreds of times before—become Blondie.
The fantasy. The mask. The girl the audience waited for.
Tonight, it felt like theater. Like betrayal.
Her painted smile formed automatically, the curve as perfect as ever. Her costume hugged her body like a second skin.
But it was all noise. Muscle memory and nothing more.
The reflection looked right—but it didn’t feel right.
Behind the mask, the eyes were empty. Not Katherine.
Not Blondie. Just someone suspended in the in-between.
She blinked. Adjusted her posture. Tilted her head. Watched the stranger in the mirror copy it all back. She used to own that reflection—radiate control, tease with power. Now?
The defiance was gone. So was the illusion of freedom.
But it wasn’t an escape anymore. Not when Ben’s presence clung to every shadow. His voice. His hands. His judgment.
His absence.
She couldn’t unsee the way he’d looked at her. Like he finally knew. Like it broke something.
Everywhere she looked, she found him. In cologne that wasn’t his but made her ache anyway.
In glances that reminded her of how he watched her.
In songs pulsing through the floor—songs she’d once danced to without thinking.
Now they just echoed private moments she couldn’t escape.
Every lyric scraped against old wounds, every bassline a heartbeat she couldn’t forget.
She kept trying to become Blondie again. To find that mask and wear it well. But no amount of red lips and glittered lashes could hide the ruin beneath.
And maybe that was the truth.
Maybe Katherine—the daughter, the lawyer, the fighter—was already gone.
Not because someone took her.
Because she handed herself away. Piece by piece. Smile by smile.
And now she didn’t know who she was performing for anymore.