I grab Alex’s arm and steer him toward the back hallway. “What the fuck was that?”
He doesn’t answer, allowing me to guide him past curious onlookers and through the employees-only door. I push him into the tiny dressing room I share with Mark, thanking whatever deity is listening that it’s empty right now. The space is barely big enough for the two of us—a cramped rectangle with makeup mirrors, costumes hanging from hooks, and the faint smell of body spray.
I lock the door behind us and turn to face him. “Are you trying to get me fired?”
Alex leans against the makeup counter, arms crossed over his chest. He’s trying to look casual, unbothered, but I can see the tension vibrating through him. “That asshole put his hands on you.”
“Security would have handled it.”
“Not fast enough.” His eyes rake over me, lingering on my bare chest where stage makeup and glitter still cling to my skin. “Is this what you left for? This is what was so important you had to disappear without a fucking word?”
The contempt in his voice hits me like a slap. “You don’t get to judge me, Alex.”
“I’ve been coming here, watching you…” He gestures at my costume. “Watching you do this. Let strangers leer at you. For what? Money? Was my father’s house not good enough for you? The private tutors, the ballet lessons, everything we gave you?”
Something snaps inside me. “Everything you gave me? You didn’t give me shit, Alex. Your father took me in because he married my mother, not out of the goodness of his nonexistent heart. Every ‘gift’ came with strings attached.”
“So what? Everyone has expectations. That’s life.” Alex pushes off from the counter, taking a step toward me. “You had it better than most people could dream of. And you threw it all away to come shake your ass for dollar bills?”
“Fuck you.” I plant my hands on his chest and shove him back. “You have no idea what it was like for me in that house. You grew up with privilege so ingrained you can’t even see it. The golden son, the heir to the Orlov empire. You think your father treated me the same way he treated you?”
Alex’s eyes narrow. “Then tell me. Tell me why you ran. Tell me what was so terrible you couldn’t even say goodbye.”
For a moment, I consider doing just that. But the words stick in my throat. Some truths are too dangerous to speak aloud, especially when I don’t know where Alex’s loyalties truly lie.
“I don’t owe you an explanation,” I say instead. “I don’t oweyou anything. I want nothing to do with the Orlov family. Not anymore.”
“Bullshit.” Alex steps closer, invading my space. “You think I haven’t noticed how you perform when I’m here? How you push yourself harder, pull out all the stops? You want me to see you.”
Heat rushes to my face. “Get out.”
“Vincent—”
“Get. Out.” I unlock the door and yank it open. “Stay away from me, Alex. Go back to your father and your perfect life and forget you ever saw me.”
Something between hurt and resignation flickers across his face. For a moment, he looks like the boy I left behind five years ago, the one who used to follow me around the estate with undisguised adoration. Then his expression hardens, the mask of Yuri’s son sliding back into place.
“Fine,” he says, his voice ice-cold. “Have it your way.”
He brushes past me, his shoulder bumping mine hard enough to make me step back. I watch him stride down the hallway, his back rigid with anger. Only when he disappears around the corner do I let out the breath I’ve been holding, sagging against the doorframe.
“Who the hell was that?”
I whip around to find Rina standing a few feet away, her stage makeup half-removed, a robe wrapped tightly around her petite frame. Her eyes are narrowed with suspicion.
“Nobody,” I say automatically. “Just an angry client.”
Rina crosses her arms, hip cocked to one side. “Bullshit. That’s the guy from the frat house, isn’t it? The one who cornered you outside.”
I consider lying, but Rina’s got the best bullshit detector ofanyone I know. “Yeah. It’s him.”
“And?” She steps closer, lowering her voice. “Who is he to you? Because that didn’t look like a random client interaction to me.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Uncomplicate it.” Her tone leaves no room for evasion. “We’ve worked together for a year now, and you’ve never talked about your past. Then this guy shows up, picking fights with customers. Mark and I are worried about you.”
The concern in her voice breaks something loose in my chest. These people—Rina, Mark, the others at the Siren—they’re the closest thing to family I’ve had since I left the Orlovs. They deserve some version of the truth.
