Page 15 of Dance of Deception

I don’t have time to spiral. The hand returns, gripping my elbow lightly, urging me forward.

It’s happening.

I remind myself of the instructions the man who answered the phone gave me in a low, quiet voice two nights ago, after he’d asked how I got his number. I told him Brooklyn’s name, and that I was another ballet dancer. I’d started to awkwardly give him my dance resume over the phone, but he’d stopped me and given me theserulesinstead:

Arrive at the pickup location by 8:30 PM.

Do not bring any personal belongings beyond essentials.

Donotbring your phone.

Lateness or failure to adhere to these rules will result in immediate disqualification from the job and any compensation.

I did exactly as I was told. And now? I’m here.

…Whereverhereis.

I keep my steps light, quiet, listening for any subtle movements around me as I’m led through a set of doors. The temperature shifts dramatically, the cold of outside giving way to warmth. I can hear the sound of high heels clicking as the other dancers…presumably…are led with me down a hallway.

Moving deeper into the building.

A door slides opens with a ding.

Elevator.

My suspicions are confirmed as I am herded into a crowded space, rubbing shoulders with other bodies of my size and build—again, I’m guessing the other girls who are here to dance tonight.

The elevator drops lower. When the doors ding open, we’re led out through what feel like cramped hallways. Finally, a door opens with a slight creak, and we’re led into another space.

The blindfold doesn’t come off immediately. I hear shuffling, movement, the shifting of bodies. The faintest floral scent drifts through the air—perfume, expensive and subtle.

Then, finally, fingers at the knot behind my head, the sensation of fabric slipping away.

Light. Soft and golden.

I blink, my eyes adjusting as the world comes into focus. I’m standing in a large, elegant dressing area, like something out of an animated princess movie.

A row of vanities, the bulbs surrounding their mirrors glowing with warm, flattering light. Each station has a clothing rack hung with a delicate and luxurious, shimmering costume—sexy, but not stripper-sexy, at least.

Seven stations. Seven girls.

I turn. My eyes immediately find Brooklyn. She’s standing a few feet away, her own blindfold freshly removed, her dark eyeslocking on mine for the briefest of moments. There’s a tightness in her jaw, a stiffness in her posture.

Then I notice the men who led us in here.

They’re standing among us, silently watching. Each wears a sleek, matte black Venetian mask, ornate but expressionless, hiding their faces completely, leaving only their sharp suits and unreadable body language.

Their presence is…unsettling.

But then, as if responding to some unspoken signal, they turn and walk out.

Except one.

He stands near the door, his gloved hands resting lightly in front of him.

“Get dressed in the outfits assigned to you,” he says, his voice muffled slightly by the mask. “Fifteen minutes. Someone will return to escort you to the performance when it’s time.”

Then he, too, is gone.

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