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Normally, it’d be empty, waiting for me, but today the owner is standing in front of my mirror, his face stormy and his gaze laser-locked on me, completely ignoring the dancers rushing madly around him in the midst of their costume change.

“Andi,” he greets grimly, a note of foreboding in his tone.

“Bruno,” I rush, panting lightly as I try to edge past him to my stage-makeup bag. “I know, I know. I’m late. But I can still make my cue, if you’ll just . . .”

He lets me pass without much of a struggle, and I sit quickly in my chair. I start to apply the accentuated features of a 1940s jazz singer, trying to seem casual, but inwardly I hold my breath. Bruno doesn’t come out of his office for much; the occasional walk-through before curtain, grabbing a performer to charm a potential investor . . . and to fire someone.

He stands in stony silence for a moment, watching me as I rush through my usual routine. Usually I try to really capture the seduction and glamor people come to the club to experience, with intricate shimmering eye shadow and full, pouting dark lips, but tonight I’m short on time, and Bruno’s looming presence makes it hard to get into character. My look isn’t very lavish as I finish the hasty application, but it’ll have to do. Next to my table is the one that belongs to my friend Jade, and she has a blow dryer already plugged in. Jade has to pull her tight bleach-blonde ringlets into an elaborate updo to match the other dancers every night and she always has a bunch of hair products lying around. I grab the blow dryer, knowing she won’t mind, and start styling my hair to get rid of the sweaty, just-ran-for-my-life look.

Bruno glowers at me, but I studiously avoid his gaze, all while moving the dryer back and forth. When my hair looks mostly dry, with a little curl at the ends, I turn it off and move to go to the wings, but Bruno is still in my way. Tensely, I finally meet his eyes, knowing that I look scared and pleading.

Finally, he says, “You’re on in one. Come to my office after you get off stage."

I nod hastily and slip past him again before he can change his mind. For tonight, at least, I still have a job.

In the wings, I pass my understudy, Jasmine, already in her version of my costume, with nicer-applied makeup than mine. I guess she was ready to take my place. Makes sense. I came so late that they probably didn’t know if I’d show at all. She gives me a tight smile before silently moving out of my way, letting me take her spot waiting to go onstage. She already starts stripping out her evening gown as she moves, probably to change back into the chorus’s costume. Just then, the curtain falls, the dancers prancing off stage in sparkling leotards, huge smiles painted on their faces. I dodge the dancers to get to my mark. One of them is Jade, her glittering gold costume highlighting her blonde hair and dark brown skin even in the low light, and she snags my elbow before I can go too far.

“Hey, you okay?” she hisses, mindful of the audience not too far away.

“I’m fine, but I gotta get to center.”

She lets go but says, “Seriously, Andi, are you ok? Was it him?”

Even the vague mention of Colton sends a lump of fear to my throat, which I hastily swallow down. I’ve got to sing in about two seconds. “Can’t talk right now,” I murmur before finally finding my mark on center stage, hitting a stylized pose as the curtain rises again.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the husky voice of Chris, our light tech and MC, booms through the speakers. “Please put your hands together for the jewel of La Couronne Bleu, with the voice of an angel and eyes of a devil, the sultry siren herself, our Nightingale, Miss Andromeda Lux!”

The lights rise in hazy ambers with a touch of blue, polite applause rippling through the darkened audience, perhaps a little more enthusiastically from our regulars. I demure my eyes with heavy lids, winding one hand sensuously toward the faux-vintage microphone as Ella, the pianist, trills her fingers through the first run, and I let my eyes snap up, feeling the slight murmur through the crowd. My eyes are my best feature normally, a dark blue at odds with the rest of my Mediterranean features, but under Chris’ expert lighting, they appear to be a striking violet. I let that moment settle for a breath and launch into my set.

This is usually my favorite part of the day. The world falls away. The audience and their clinking of the glasses, the peripheral flurry of the next act in the wings, the worries of the day all fade to nothing. All that’s left is my voice and the music. But today, after Colton showing up again and having to lose him again, my worries stay close. I try to lose myself in classic blues and jazz covers of contemporary songs, but my eyes keep darting to the audience, trying to see faces through the glare of the stage lights. Is he here? Did he get in? Club security is good, but he’s gotten in before. Just to show me he could, I think. Just to show me that nowhere is safe, nowhere is secure enough. That I’ll never get rid of him.

My performance is adequate, but not my best, and the applause doesn’t seem as warm as usual. Oh well. The curtain falls, and I stumble offstage, passing our contortionist act as she takes my place. It’s a good act—better than good—with impossible fluidity, aerial silks, and brilliant choreography. Most nights, I like to watch from the wings. Mercury is a friend and a veritable genius at her craft, but not this time. Tonight, I feel the trickle of cold sweat down my spine as I make my way to Bruno’s office. Not this, I silently pray to whatever gods might be listening. Please, not this. Don’t let him take this, too.

The stage office door is as beat up as the rest of backstage is. It's made from old gouged, but solid, oak, adorned with rusted staples still with the corners of whatever fliers they used to hold, and a few less-than-flattering colorful insults keyed into it from disgruntled ex-employees somewhere down the line. It’s never looked this frightening before, and I can feel tears prick my eyes, much to my chagrin.

“It’s only a job,” I lie to myself in a mutter, carefully catching the tears with my pinky in the corner of my eyes before they can spill and leave embarrassing black rivers in their wake. “Only a job.” Stiffening my spine, I knock.

“Yeah,” comes the gruff response on the other side of the door. Knowing I won’t get much more than that, I slip into the familiar space.

Bruno’s office always looks like a tornado has gone through it. File cabinets overflow with papers and ledgers cover his desk. I can see receipts, menus, and liquor order forms all strewn about madly around an ancient computer. Even though this would drive me a bit crazy, the boss likes it like that. The stage manager, George, tried to organize once, and Bruno was so angry his face went purple. I thought a blood vessel would pop in his forehead.

Now the boss sits at his messy desk, scribbling something in a notebook while staring intently at his computer. He glances my way for a moment and gives a curt nod to a rickety wooden chair that’s seen better days, before turning back the bright screen. I sit nervously, the seat creaking loudly even under my slight weight. Bruno taps a few keys, nods to himself, and then turns to me, my heart rate kicking up even higher under his shrewd gaze.

“So,” he says, leaning back, his fingers woven across his rounded stomach. He arches a brow at me, assessing.

In my sassier days, I might have mirrored that “So,” right back at him, a wry smile quirked at my lips. I would have been bold, confident. I’m not that self anymore. That self didn’t know what it was like to be scared. Well-and-truly, soul-deep scared. She was naïve, maybe even stupid.

Colton changed all that. He showed me I’m not safe and that I am definitely powerless. Everyone else in the whole damn world seems to have more power than me. They move this way and that, and I'm just swept in their wake.

So, looking at the man in front of me with my career in his hands and more than a little ice in his heart, I’m not sassy. I don’t play power games. I just feel my shoulders slump, my head bow, and say, “I know,” and promptly burst into the tears I’ve been trying to hold back all evening.

Little sobs break from my throat, the sounds almost seeming to echo through the cramped space. I’m feeling too broken to even be embarrassed that I’m vocally weeping in front of the boss who’s about to fire me. This is the end. Granny Jean was right. I should have never come to the city. I don’t belong here. I can’t make it.

The thought forces a small wail from my throat, and I press my fingers to my lips to stop another from escaping. I glance up through bleary, smeared-mascara eyes. Bruno looks horrified. His mouth is agape, as if he’s truly at a loss as to what to do. After a moment of awkward eye contact, he clears his throat, handing me his pocket square, which I promptly bury my face in.

“Shit, Andi,” he begins. “Look . . . aw, shit, don’t cry.”

“I’m, I’m sorry,” I hiccup, trying to pull it together. I’m a foster kid, for crying out loud. I should be able to take rejection. “I just . . . I mean, I know I’ve been a mess lately, with missing work and . . . and being late, and you’ve been more than patient, and I know you need to fire me, and . . .” A fresh round of sobs burst out, and I put the now-ruined pocket square back to my face. It’s just all too much. I’ve lost so much in the past three months. Losing my dream job should have been expected after everything else, but instead, it just feels like the final nail in the coffin.