My blood turns to ice, then fire, then something I can’t name. Five years without a word. Five years of nothing. And here he is, in the last place I’d ever expect to find him.
Vincent smiles at something one of the other dancers says, and my gut twists. I haven’t seen that smile in ages. It’s the same and different all at once—still that slight curl at one corner before the rest of his mouth catches up, but sharper now, more rehearsed.
Ronan jostles my side, shouting something directly into my ear that I don’t hear. I barely stop myself from shoving him through the nearest wall.
Vincent turns, scanning the crowd with indifference, until his gaze locks onto mine. Everything else—the drunk shouting, the thudding music, the blinding lights—fades to background noise. Those eyes, still the same rich amber-gold, freeze me in place.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. For a heartbeat, the years peel away and it’s just Vincent and me, the way it used to be before everything shattered. Before he disappeared without a trace, leaving me to wonder if he was even alive.
My fingers curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms hard enough to draw blood. Vincent tilts his head, unreadable, a ghost of recognition flickering across his face before his expression smooths into professional detachment.
The music builds, and the two female dancers step forward to begin their routine. They’re good—skilled, athletic, working the crowd with skillful movements and seductive smiles. The guys around me cheer and whistle, but I barely see them. My entire focus narrows to Vincent, who stands slightly offstage, watching the performance with calm assessment.
“Damn, they’re hot,” Ronan slurs, elbowing me. “You think they do private dances?”
I grunt, not trusting myself to speak. Jess’s hand tightens on my arm, her fingernails digging through my sleeve.
“Alex? Are you okay?”
I ignore her. The female dancers finish their routine, strutting offstage to raucous applause. There’s a brief pause, a shift in the music, and then Vincent steps forward with the other male dancer.
He moves like he was born to do this, falling into the beat effortlessly. This isn’t the ballet I used to watch him perform in secret—this is something entirely different. His body snaps to the rhythm, each movement controlled and deliberate. When he rolls his hips, the crowd screams.
Vincent unbuttons his shirt slowly, revealing inch by inch of toned chest and abdomen. His skin gleams under the spotlight—covered in some kind of gold shimmer that catches the light with every movement. When the shirt comes off completely, he tosses it into the crowd with a flick of his wrist. Some girl to my left shrieks as she catches it, clutching the fabric like it’s a sacred relic.
The lights flash across Vincent’s body, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the smooth arch of his throat, the defined planes of his chest. He spins low to the ground, muscles flexing beneath golden skin, and rises in one fluid motion that defies physics.
“Fuck,” Ronan mutters beside me, “I’m straight as an arrow, but I’d let that one sit on my face.”
Something snaps inside me. I turn to Ronan, ready to break his jaw, but Vincent’s next move pulls my attention back to the stage. He lifts his arms above his head, his body ripplinglike water, and I can’t look away even though each movement feels like a knife between my ribs.
The second male dancer slides behind Vincent, gripping his waist. Together they move in perfect, filthy synchronization. The stranger’s hands on Vincent’s hips, on his chest, in his hair. The crowd goes wild, but all I feel is something hot and ugly curling in my gut.
The music surges to a brutal crescendo. Vincent drops to one knee, slamming a hand against the stage floor, his head thrown back in a display of abandon. The black pants stay on, thank fuck, but they leave little to the imagination as he rises for the finale.
With a slow drag of his hand through his hair, Vincent strikes a final pose as the music cuts out. The crowd roars, throwing bills onto the stage, reaching with greedy hands that Vincent deftly avoids as he bows and backs away.
“Holy shit,” someone nearby breathes.
I become aware of wetness on my hand and look down to find my cup crushed, vodka spilling over my fingers and sleeve. I don’t remember doing that.
“Alex?” Jess’s voice reaches me through the fog in my brain. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Seriously, man,” Ronan adds, peering at my face with drunken concern. “You went all weird. Like, scary weird.”
“Need air,” I mutter, the words scraping my throat raw.
I push through the crowd, ignoring Jess calling my name. The bathroom is closer than the exit, so I lunge for it, slamming the door behind me. Alone, I lean over the sink, turning on the cold water to wash the alcohol from my hands. I splash water on my face, trying to shock myself back to reality.
The mirror shows me a stranger—pale face, wild eyes,hair sticking up where I’ve raked wet fingers through it. I look haunted. I feel haunted.
Five fucking years without a word, and Vincent just shows up like this? Dancing like that, letting strangers put their hands all over him?
I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles turning white. The only person in the entire world who can wreck me like this is my stepbrother. And somehow, after all this time, he still holds that power.
The worst part? For that split second when our eyes met, I saw recognition. He knew exactly who I was. He saw me, and he didn’t stop the show, didn’t try to talk to me, didn’t do a goddamn thing except dance like I was just another face in the crowd.
Like I was nothing to him at all.
