Page 23

Keeping my mind busy stops me from spiralling, and my hellion of a cat at home keeps me company.

“I’m worried about you.” Her brown eyes bore into mine in the mirror. “You haven’t been yourself recently.”

I know. But what do I tell her?

‘My abusive ex is out hunting me?’

She would lose her mind. Tell me to call the police. But that’s the thing. I can’t. If I do, I’ll most likely end up dead. He’ll find me quicker than the police can find him, and he’ll kill me.

No one will understand the situation I’m in.

“Vix?” Her voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and my stomach growls inside me with a sick feeling.

I give her a smile, continuing to apply my foundation. “I’m fine. Like you said, I just need a night off.”

She eyes me sceptically. “Promise me you’ll schedule at least a weekend off?”

“I promise,” I reply, crossing my fingers under the desk.

“Hey, I saw that!” She slaps my hand.

I pick up my phone—ignoring the three texts from said ex—and morph my face into shock. “Shit, you’re late on stage!”

Cursing, she rushes out of the room.

She has five minutes left, but she doesn’t need to know that. I chuckle to myself as I apply my nude lipstick.

The girls slowly start disappearing from the room, leaving me on my own with just the bass of the music vibrating through the walls. I pull out my black fishnet stockings, sliding my shorts off and pulling the stockings high enough to cover the scar on my leg. I dab a little bit of eyelash glue under the lacy seam and hold the material there for a few seconds. I gently pull on the stocking once I think it’s dry to make sure it doesn’t slide around.

I finish my outfit off with a green mini skirt and a tight, long-sleeve crop top.

I examine myself in the giant wall mirror, already preparing to slip into my dancer role. I hope one day I won’t have to. Maybe I can be confident enough to not pretend to be anyone but Camila. Though, every time I think of people knowing what I’ve been through, I picture myself getting kicked back out to the streets of London.

Dirty. Used. Damaged.

I shake my head out of the dark spiral, smoothing my hands down my outfit and heading towards the stage.

The tangled wires on the back of the stage screen are staring at me. My heart rate picks up as I wipe my sweaty hands on my skirt. My breaths come in shaky as the music fades out in the club’s main room.

This never happens. Normally, my body is buzzing with energy.

Though a certain Warren has been popping into my mind since last night. And I know I shouldn’t—he’s technically my boss—but I’m secretly hoping he’s here again. He looked at me differently… and I liked it.

The screen starts rising—Lights Out by NBDY starts playing through the speakers, and I begin making my usual slow walk up to the pole.

The hair on my nape rises the second I take a step out, and the feeling of someone watching me floods over me again.

It’s just the air conditioning.

But it’s not. It’s like my body knows he’s here.

And like a moth to a flame, I take a glance over to the same booth from last night to make sure my senses aren’t just making this up.

He’s not there.

No.

This time, he’s much closer to the stage; he may as well be sitting on the railing separating the stage from the main floor. The normally full chairs in front of the stage aren’t full tonight; they’re empty, and Xander is the only one lounging in the middle seat. Legs spread wide, tattooed hands resting on the armrests, with one holding a half-empty tumbler. His frame is so large that the chair looks almost comically small.