Page 61 of When Hearts Ignite

Plus, the only person you can truly depend on is yourself. Life has taught me that lesson.

This is temporary, a blip in the broader scheme of things.

I stare at myself in the reflection, my fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the straps of my tasteful, yet sexy black bandage dress. My fingers graze the soft fabric, which crisscrosses over my chest and torso in a curve-hugging way, offering glimpses of the full swells of my cleavage, and the hem ending right above my knees.

Dark chocolate colored hair, with subtle streaks of mahogany and caramels and loose curls for days, expertly done by the on-site makeup artist, purported to be award-winning and best in her field. Lips coated in blood red, with a hint of gloss for plumpness. Large, doe-like eyes in the same shade of sapphire laced amethyst, are lined in a sultry cat-eye, and coated with at least three coats of mascara, making them pop on my otherwise pale face.

A breath lodges in my throat and I can see a wetness gathering in the eyes staring back at me in the mirror. Quickly blinking, I inhale the lavender scented air deep into my lungs, hoping to stem the impending tears. I can’t ruin the makeup.

I look beautiful. Stunning. The spitting image of the starlet who took Broadway by storm all those years ago despite never being the main character.

I don’t recognize myself.

And it’s the loss of these dreams that haunts me the most.

My chest trembles as I exhale. Lately, it seems more and more difficult to breathe.

This beautiful, sexy woman is the one men flock to at Trésor. Cheers erupt when I finish a performance on the stage, each one leaving me in various stages of undress. The tips are endless and there are many requests for me to perform private dances, which I’ve always declined.

I’m a sensation. Unparalleled. A starlet within the Rose floors.

The lump in my throat grows and I roll my lips inward. Images of the bright-eyed girl in the frumpy clothes typing madly into the keyboard at the crack of dawn in a cold office shine behind my eyes. That girl was respected because of her intelligence, because of what she offered with her work ethic.

A handsome, dark-haired man with eyes the color of fall leaves swirls to the forefront. The quiet mornings in the office discussing everything under the sun. The way I still vividly remember his intoxicating scent of the ocean breeze and worn leather. How his eyes would spark and smolder when he stared at me when we were watching The Sound of Music at the pier. The way he reminded me not all men are sleazy disappointments.

But then, there was the look of regret when he told me he couldn’t give me the job offer I very much deserved.

And yesterday, the searing shock on his face when he saw me in the courtyard. Tears streamed down my face because it was my first birthday after Mom’s death. The most heartbreaking thing in the last nine months didn’t end up being what happened at Pietra or the dancing at The Orchid.

It was the crippling loss of Mom.

The wonderful woman with a heart so full of love never ended up getting her happily-ever-after. Instead, she took her secrets away with her, taking the identity of my father to her grave when her vibrant soul was snuffed out by a driver who had too many drinks at a party and careened into her as she was crossing the street at the end of her shift at work.

A beautiful soul obliterated in a matter of seconds, leaving Taylor’s and my hearts in tatters. It has always been the three Peyton women against the world.

Now, there are only the two of us left.

Despite how I look absolutely nothing like I did when he last saw me, Steven somehow recognized me in a split second.

I noticed the way his eyes skated over my attire, not lingering on my exposed flesh the way the other men would within the walls of Trésor, the way those amber pools darkened with concern as we stared at each other for the first time in nine months, the way he took those few steps toward me as if he wanted to see up close if I was all right.

But I don’t want to face him. I want him to remember me as the intelligent woman he admired back then, the future rock star of Wall Street, and not a woman using her feminine wiles to eke out a living.

I’ve become the person I didn’t want to be, and while I’d make the same choice all over again, I still haven’t reconciled with this situation. If Mom could see me now, she’d be sad. Even though she used to say I should use my looks to my advantage, I somehow doubt she meant this.

My feelings are convoluted, a scrambled mess of knots in my chest. At least we were able to fool her into thinking I still worked on Wall Street until the end, since I’d leave our new apartment in my professional attire, only to change once I was at The Orchid.

“It’s not too bad, is it, Genevieve? It should be an easy job tonight, just schmoozing with rich men at some event in the ballroom downstairs. The tips will be enormous, and we don’t need to dance,” a raspy voice questions behind me.

We all had to take on French stage names when we started working at Trésor. All the more to sell the illusion, the mystique.

I turn around, finding Camille standing there with a grin on her pretty face. She also dances at Trésor, but the difference between her and me is, she loves her job. She loves wielding her body like a forbidden fruit, enticing men with her lingering gaze and the sultry sway of her hips.

She’s proud and happy with herself, so much she opted not to hide behind a stage name, because she said Camille is already French. A confident badass. And I love her for it. It’s wonderful she finds dancing here empowering, and the pay is indeed nothing to sneeze at. I can see where she’s coming from, controlling the narrative, feeling confident with your body.

I wish I could feel the same way. But this is not the life I wanted for myself. And often, in the brief moments of silence within these walls, I find the sadness curling around my chest, its thorns prickling my bleeding heart.

Suck it up, buttercup. This is temporary, not forever. A temporary setback.

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