Page 14 of Dance of Deception

He turns his head, eyes flicking toward me for the first time.

Slowly. Deliberately.

The air between us stretches thin, humming. Then he gives the slightest, faintest smirk.

“Or next time,” he murmurs, “we’ll take something else instead.”

His gaze drags over me.

My skin prickles, with fear or rage I don't know, and my breath stays locked away in my chest.

The man lets the moment hang before brushing down his track suit like this has all been some friendly business arrangement, then glances at his partner. They step back toward the door. The one who did all the talking pauses, fingers tapping twice on the doorframe as he looks back at Vera.

“First payment’s due in a week,” he reminds her.

Then the door slams behind them, rattling in its hinges and jangling the broken lock and splintered doorframe.

I don’t move.

“Mom…”

“Let methink, Lyra!” she snaps, her face pale as she staggers back to the couch before exhaling a slow, shaky breath and reaching for her drink.

“Evendead, that piece of shit keeps ruining my life,” she mumbles, sinking onto the couch and staring haggardly at the wall.

I barely hear her. My mind is already elsewhere.

One hundred thousand dollars. Five grand a week.

The weight of it presses down on me, suffocating.

Like Vera’s, my hands are trembling. But I don’t reach for a bottle. I reach for my phone and scroll to Brooklyn’s contact, my thumb hovering over the call button.

I don’t want to do this.

But I don’t think I have a choice.

3

LYRA

Fuck.I should have worn something warmer.

Even through my winter coat, the icy wind slices through me, across my bare legs, seeping through my clothes like it’s trying to reach my bones, making me tremble.

Or maybe I’m just shaking because I’m terrified.

The car that brought me here is already gone, leaving me standing in the freezing cold New York night blindfolded and vulnerable.

The moment the car door opened, a hand took my arm—not roughly, but firmly, guiding me out and onto solid ground. I nearly tripped, but the grip steadied me, fingers pressing into my coat sleeve before letting go.

I have no idea where I am, because I’ve been blindfolded ever since the car picked me up maybe twenty minutes ago.

Brooklyn insisted—insisted—that this gig was neither stripping nor prostitution in any sense when I asked her about it for the umpteenth time after I made that phone call.

“It’s literally just a dance gig,” she’d reassured me.

But standing here now, shivering in the unknown, secrecy wrapping itself tighter around me with every step I take, I wonder how much of that was her convincing me, and how much was her convincing herself.

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