His eyes reflect the lights, gold and amber and honey. “Happy birthday, Alex.”
Something catches in my throat. “You… remembered?”
“Of course I remembered.”
A warmth spreads through my chest that has nothing to do with the whiskey I’ve been drinking.
“Neither of your friends seem to know it’s your birthday. Why didn’t you tell them?”
I shrug. “Never saw the point. My birthdays were always just… performances. My father inviting business associates with sons my age, everyone pretending we were friends. Expensive gifts I didn’t ask for. Fancy dinners where I had to use the right fork.”
The memories rise unbidden—sitting at the head of a too-long table, surrounded by faces that blurred together, my father’s hand heavy on my shoulder as he introduced me to people whose names I’d forget by dessert.
“After my mother died,” I continue, “it got worse. No one to run interference, to make sure there was at least cake I actually liked. Just my father’s idea of what a birthday should be. Appearances, always appearances.”
Vincent’s expression softens. “I remember.”
“The only good parts were after everyone left. When you and I would sneak down to the theater room with whatever food we could steal from the kitchen.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Those chocolate eclairs that Angela made. The ones you said would rot our teeth because they were too sweet.”
“And you’d eat them all so I wouldn’t have to.” I bump my shoulder against his. “My hero.”
“They were good eclairs.” Vincent shrugs. “It wasn’t exactly a sacrifice.”
We laugh, and something tight in my chest eases. This is what I’ve missed. The easy understanding. The shared history that no one else has access to.
“I’ve thought about your birthday every year,” Vincent says, his voice dropping lower. “Wondered what you were doing. If you had people around who knew what you actually liked.”
The admission hangs between us, fragile and weighty at once.
“I’ve thought about you, too,” I confess. “Not just on mybirthday. All the time.”
Vincent looks away, back toward the city lights. “It hasn’t been easy.”
I study his profile, cataloging the sharpened angles of his face. “Were you happy?”
His laugh is humorless. “Happy? I don’t know. Surviving, mostly. The club’s been good to me. They’re good people. Found me when I was at my lowest and gave me a place to belong.”
“But stripping,” I press, unable to keep the edge from my voice. “Is that what you want?”
Vincent turns to face me fully, eyes narrowing. “It pays the bills. And I’m good at it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “No, Alex. Dancing for drunk strangers isn’t my dream job. But it’s what I have. Not all of us can live in penthouses with private rooftops.”
The bitterness in his voice stings, but I deserve it. “What would you do? If you could do anything?”
Something shifts in his expression. “I’ve thought about opening a dance studio,” he admits. “Not the fancy kind with pushy stage moms and five-thousand-dollar recital costumes. Something for kids who can’t afford lessons otherwise. Kids from neighborhoods where art programs get cut first.”
As he speaks, his entire demeanor changes. His eyes brighten with a passion I haven’t seen since we were teenagers and he’d talk about the ballets he wanted to perform someday.
“I’d teach them everything—ballet fundamentals, but also contemporary, hip-hop, whatever they wanted to learn. Give them the same escape dance gave me.” His tone grows more confident. “Maybe partner with schools, offer scholarships. Make it a real community space, you know? Somewhere kidscan go after school instead of being on the streets.”
“You’d be amazing at that,” I say, meaning it.
Vincent’s enthusiasm dims, reality reasserting itself. “Yeah, well. That takes money. A lot of it. And business knowledge I don’t have.” His eyes drop to the ground, then back to mine. “What about you? Still planning to join the family business? Be the next Orlov mogul?”
