Page 16 of Dance of Deception

Silence follows.

For a moment, no one moves. I step to Brooklyn, my voice low. “What thefuckis this?”

Brooklyn shakes her head. “Just get dressed,” she whispers. “Last time, they said we weren’t supposed to talk to each other.”

I glance at the other girls, all silently doing as they’re told, and a fresh chill rolls through me.

Brooklyn catches the look on my face and softens slightly. “I know. It’s weird. But it’s not bad.”

I hesitate. But then I think of the men forcing their way into our apartment. The debt. Vera’s face.

I move to my station, swallowing hard as I pull the outfit from the rack.

It’s…beautiful.

And revealing. Very, very revealing, and I say that as someone who’s been dancing in tights and leotards her whole life.

Slinky gold fabric, almost sheer in certain places. The kind that clings and molds to the body, leaving nothing to the imagination.

I run my fingers over the material, my stomach tightening. I’m used to costumes, to exposing skin to facilitate movement, but this… This is different.

I hesitate, then remind myself why I’m here.

Five thousand dollars.

Yep, there’s my motivation.

I change quickly, my hands shaking slightly as I slip out of my clothes and into the costume, adjusting the fit. No bra. No real support. But it’s elegant, in its own way.

I turn to the mirror, taking in my reflection.

The girl staring back at me is someone I don’t quite recognize.

A soft exhale from my left catches my attention.

Brooklyn—already dressed, smoothing a hand over her hip, staring at her own reflection like she’s trying to convince herself of something.

Before either of us can speak, the door opens again and figures step in.

At first I think it’s the same men as before—but then I realize I'm wrong. It’s women now, clad in sharp black suits, moving with quiet precision. They, too, wear masks.

One of them steps in front of me, a faint, cool, clean scent trailing from her. She holds up a piece of black silk.

Another blindfold.

Before I can protest she’s wrapping the fabric over my eyes, tying it gently.

A flicker of motion to my right—someone else is being blindfolded. Before my vision disappears completely, I see a metallic glint.

One of the masked women is securing a smooth gold mask over another dancer’s blindfold. Unlike the ones the women are wearing, and the men before, this one has an expression that suggests the face of a classical Greek sculpture of a woman.

A fresh wave of unease snakes through me.

My blindfold is secured. Then a mask slipped over my face. A second later, something is pressed into my palm.

Earbuds.

“Put these in,” the woman behind me instructs softly.

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