Chapter six
Violet
Aguitar riff cuts through the chatter, smooth and unmistakable, and my spine pulls straight.
“You’re the thought that won’t leave me alone.”
A smooth voice fills the Eden dressing room, threading through the music. It drags a line of goosebumps up my arms. It’s ridiculous how fast that voice yanks the past up by the throat.
“Can we turn that off?” I blurt.
No one moves.
“You’re the thought that won’t leave me alone,” the voice insists.
“Can someone please shut it off?” I snap, whipping around, my demand slicing through the noise and the girls’ half-finished conversations.
The room goes still, every head swiveling in my direction.
“Alright, alright. Jesus, relax,” Blaire says, hands held up in exaggerated surrender. She snatches the stereo remote from the vanity, pouting as she points it at the speaker. “I love these guys,” she adds, stabbing a button.
The song cuts mid-line, Carter’s voice severed, and another track kicks in.
Everyone’s eyes are still on me. But I’ve got zero fucks to give.
“Thanks,” I mutter, turning back to the mirror.
I pick up my lipstick and lean in, steadying my hand as I run the color over my lips, slow and careful.
“Carter Ashford is amazing,” Blaire sighs, turning to Amber. Her voice carries over the music and for once I can’t block it out. “I spent the weekend with him and his mates on this utterly insane yacht.”
“No fucking way,” Amber breathes.
“Yep.” Blaire pops the p, all proud of herself. “Best weekend of my life.” She sighs theatrically again. “He’s so talented. God, those fingers don’t only know how to play the guitar.”
Amber laughs.
“And let me tell you, his dick . . . Whatever you’ve heard, it’s all true.”
My jaw pops to the side and my grip on the lipstick tightens. For a split second, I imagine crossing over to them, grabbing a fistful of Blaire’s hair, and rearranging her face on the nearest mirror.
He may not be my favorite person, but I hate the way they’re talking about him.
I set the lipstick down before I snap it in half.
One more second in this room and I’ll do something stupid enough to get me fired—so I make for the main club. Out here, I’m not little Vi. I’m Violet with a capital V. The goddess.
I move between tables and catch snippets of conversations in that detached way you do when it’s your workplace and their playground.
Men exchange half-smiles when I pass, but I barely register them, keeping my eyes trained on the floor.
They’re here to forget who they are for a few hours, and I’m here to help them do it.
That’s the arrangement. In this space, I’m the one in control.
I slip behind the bar, nodding at one of the bartenders as she swaps out an empty tray. I grab a fresh one loaded with champagne flutes, bubbles sparkling in the golden liquid. Eden’s clients expect perfection; we hand it to them, cold and glittering.
It’s empowering, in its own fucked-up way. I decide how much of myself anyone gets, how much is for sale, and how much stays locked behind my ribs. Here, no one knows my past and, more importantly, no one gives a shit. Eden doesn’t care who you used to be. Only who you can be . . . for a price.
I lift the tray, turn, let my gaze sweep across the club, counting tables, faces, who needs serving, who looks rich enough to pay for a private date.
Then I stop.
Seriously? Come the fuck on.
He’s at the far end of the bar, leaning in with his forearms resting on the polished timber, fingers wrapped around a tumbler of whiskey.
My heart stutters, then races, pulsing in my ears. All of a sudden I’m sixteen again, hovering at the edge of a party I never wanted, watching him on a couch with a guitar in his lap and girls pressed into his sides, oblivious to the one orbiting his shadow.
I blink, and my focus snaps back. My grip tightens on the tray until the champagne flutes rattle against each other.
He’s fucking with me. That’s the only explanation my brain will accept.
Anger comes in a hot rush, fizzing under my skin.
This is my world. My rules. My little kingdom carved out of other people’s needs.
This is my turf, asshole. You don’t get to waltz in and throw me off my game.
Except he already has.
I set the tray on the bar a little too hard, sending a few bubbles leaping. Then I beeline for him.
“Why are you here?” I hiss, breaking Eden’s number one rule by keeping my eyes locked on his instead of dropping them like I’m supposed to.
His smile hits me first, and it’s so fucking bright it’s like I’ve just lit up his entire evening. It’s dangerous.
“I don’t like how we left things the other night.”
We didn’t leave anything. I left, actually. Left him surrounded by his fans and his ego and went back to my actual job and my date, who did not deserve to be hijacked by Carter Fucking Ashford. He turned one perfectly good work night into a mess.
“What?!” I whisper-shout. “I don’t care, Carter.”
“Well . . . I do.”
I should care, too. We’re about to spend ten months tripping over each other across continents, and the smart move would be to find some kind of neutral ground so we can at least tolerate breathing the same air.
Right now, I don’t have it in me.
“Carter, I’m working, okay? I can’t do this here.” I sigh, pushing out years of bullshit in one breath.
“Fine.” His gaze flicks around and lands on an available chair in the middle of the club. “I want you to serve me.”
The words get fucked dance on the tip of my tongue until I spot Madame Anna making her rounds.
He doesn’t look back to see if I’m following, just heads for the chair, knowing full well I don’t have a choice. I trail after him, my steps full of stomp and sulk, too annoyed to get it together.
He drops into the chair, reclining like a king getting comfortable, his eyes locking straight onto mine.
“Kneel.”
My chin lifts on instinct, teeth grinding.
This fucker has me exactly where he wants me.
Carter spreads his knees, making room, and I slowly lower myself between them. Every muscle in my body protests even as my brain reminds me that this is literally what I get paid to do. I keep my eyes on his, refusing to look down, refusing to give him that deference. Eden rules be damned.
It’s a staring contest now, a quiet little war over who flinches first. And it sure as fuck won’t be me. That infuriating mouth of his slides up at the corner. I want to slap it off his face and devour his lips at the same time.
His eyes flash with satisfaction.
“I’m leaving the day after tomorrow,” he says. “Performing tomorrow night, and I won’t be back for at least a year, probably more. I want to make things right before I go.” The smugness is gone from his face, wiped clean.
Years. He’s had years to make it right if he really cared or was even remotely cut up over it. Years to think about me just once while he was busy becoming the world’s biggest obsession.
“So?” I say, all attitude.
“Come to the show tomorrow night? I’ll leave you backstage passes, and we can hang out afterward. Talk.”
“No.”
He huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh. “Can I get your number at least?”
“No.”
“I can just get it from Liam, you know.”
He can try. I know exactly how that will go. Liam might manage his career, but he’s still my brother, and there are some lines he would happily light on fire before crossing.
“Not if Liam wants to see me again.” It’s a bitchy thing to throw at him, but whatever. I’m not backing down.
“We can’t leave it like this, Vi,” he pleads.
“Yes, we can. Just go, Carter. I don’t care.” I roll my eyes for good measure. It’s a lie so big I’m surprised it fits in my mouth. “You haven’t crossed my mind once,” I add, twisting the knife.
He holds my gaze, and I can’t tell whether my hit landed or missed completely.
“Okay, Vi.” He nods. “Have a nice life. Take care.”
He gives me a small chin-lift, then stretches those long legs and stands. I shift back on my knees to make space. He steps around me, hands sliding into the pockets of his ripped jeans.
I watch him walk across the club, watched by other people for entirely different reasons, then he disappears through Eden’s heavy doors.
I close my eyes and puff my cheeks out.
The nerve of this guy. He gets to stroll in here and ask for what, exactly? Forgiveness, reconciliation, friendship? A redo. Some fucked-up version of closure. A chance to feel like a decent human being before he gets back on his private jet.
And I’m the one left unraveling on the carpet.
This is my home now. Eden scooped me up when I didn’t even know I needed saving. It gave me money, but more than that, it gave me control. A body that finally felt like it belonged to me. A room where people looked at me on purpose, not with pity or that thin, pinched gaze of disgust.
Before, I was invisible.
Here, I’m seen, admired, and desired. And paid. I have worked too hard to build this version of myself to let a blast from my past walk in and knock everything sideways.
I open my eyes, push my palms against my thighs, and rise to my feet. My knees ache a little. But my heart aches more.
I’ll be seeing him soon enough. Butterflies beat wildly in my stomach at the thought. Still, the old Vi is dead and buried. She’s not coming back—not if I have anything to say about it.