Page 1 of Veil of Secrets

Prologue – Elara

The bass doesn’t stop. It pounds like a second heartbeat, vibrating through the cage floor and into the soles of my boots. Sweat beads at my spine, trailing down in lines I’ve stopped wiping off hours ago. Smoke coils from cheap cigars, cologne chokes what’s left of breathable space, and the crowd underneath boils with drunken noise.

It smells like a locker room and a lie. I’m used to it.

Up here, above the chaos, I keep moving. I shift with the rhythm—not graceful, not seductive, not for them. My body does what it needs to, because if I stop, I’ll think. And thinking leads places I don’t want to go.

Some nights, I forget this cage is real metal. But tonight, the rust is flaking off the bars like old scabs, and the chain holding me up from the ceiling creaks with every turn I make.

They call this place The Cage because they think it’s clever. They think the irony is fun. What they don’t get is, I’m not trapped. I work the cage because it’s the only place I’m not pretending. Up here, no one touches me. I get to move without someone trying to own me.

Below, men bark and laugh, spilling beer and slapping backs. One of them throws a folded twenty at the bars. It misses, lands on the floor near another guy’s boot.

“Hey sweetheart!” he shouts. “Show us what you’re hiding!”

I stop. Turn just enough to see him. He’s in a jersey two sizes too tight, his belly fighting for air. His face is red, drunk red, the kind that comes with too much ego and not enough shame.

I lean forward slightly, mutter low enough for the mic not to catch.

“A bad attitude and a solid right hook. Want a closer look?”

His friends howl. He doesn’t laugh. Just narrows his eyes and lifts his middle finger.

I spin back around, grab the pole behind me, and keep moving. The cage swings a little, and I shift with it, a familiar rhythm.

These people don’t come here for talent. They want bodies. Something to drool over while their wives are home asleep. I’ve seen the same hands reach out every night, the same mouths stretch into open-mouthed grins like it’s the first pair of legs they’ve ever seen.

They don’t remember my face. Just my thighs. That’s fine. Makes it easier when I picture kicking them in the teeth.

But then—something shifts.

I don’t hear him come in. No shout, no whistle, no sloppy swagger. Just presence. Like a needle dragging across vinyl.

I scan the floor again, just a beat longer this time.

There. Near the edge of the crowd, but not in it. Leaning against a support beam like he’s part of the structure. Arms crossed. No drink. No phone. Just watching.

Black shirt. Dark eyes. Clean jawline. Still.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.

I keep going, but my stomach tugs. It’s not nerves. It’s not fear either. It’s… assessment. That kind of stillness? It doesn’t belong in here.

He’s not drunk. And he’s not looking at my ass. He’s looking at me.

My hands shift slower on the pole. Not on purpose. Just enough for my brain to start cataloging exits again. He hasn’t done anything. But he doesn’t need to.

Guys like that don’t yell. They don’t need to throw twenties or threats. They walk into rooms and the heat rearranges itself.

That kind of attention? That’s the kind that follows you home.

But I don’t stop. I never stop. Not when it gets weird, not when it gets hard. That’s when you lean in, because quitting tells people exactly where your cracks are.

My body slides along the bar, thighs tight, back arched just enough to make the drunk ones whistle. I don’t move for them. I move because it’s the only time I don’t feel like I’m being chased.

The cage groans when I shift weight again. I plant a boot against one of the lower bars and push myself up to stand on the beam. The higher I go, the less they can see, and the more I can think.

The guy’s still down there. Watching. No drink. No lean. Just there.

---