Page 16 of Veil of Secrets

Wrong move.

“Try again,” I say, not even shifting my stance. “Maybe without the attitude this time.”

He barely registers it—just snorts and keeps coming.

So I snap a kick to the inside of his shin. Hard.

There’s a crack. A real one.

He drops to the floor with a shout that’s more insulted than injured. The clipboard clatters beside him, papers scattering across the tile.

“Fucking psycho—!”

“Wrong room for tantrums,” I snap. “And wrong bitch.”

He’s still curled, cursing, rubbing his leg like that’s going to undo the damage.

From the other side of the lockers, Giorgia howls with laughter.

“God, I missed that sound,” she calls out.

I grin. Can’t help it. It’s a rare moment, sharp and clean.

“He deserved it,” I say.

“Always does.”

Carl—or whatever—keeps cussing under his breath. I step around him like he’s trash no one remembered to take out.

I grab my jacket from the hook. It’s cracked faux leather, old stitching down the sleeves, pocket half torn. It’s not pretty. It fits. That’s enough.

Vince’s words hang around like the damn humidity. “I’ve seen people get chewed up trying to be more than what they are.”

He said it like he meant well. Like he was doing me a favor.

Like I should thank him for the warning.

But what he really meant was: stay in your lane.

I zip the jacket halfway, pull the hood up even though I’m still sweating.

“No one owns me,” I say under my breath.

Not to Giorgia. Not to Carl, who’s still limping toward the door. Not even to myself, really.

It’s a reminder.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, nod at Giorgia, and push open the dressing room door.

The hallway outside buzzes with the leftover stink of the club—cheap beer, perfume, desperation. Lights overhead flicker like they’re tired. The exit sign glows red at the end of the corridor.

I pause.

Just for a second.

My fingers tighten around the strap on my bag.

There’s no one in the hall. But it feels like there is. Like a shape in the corner of my vision that never fully forms.

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