And it hits me—this isn’t new for him. This level of skill, this performance quality, the way the crowd responds to him like they’re witnessing something sacred… Vincent’s been doing this for years. While I was searching, while I was wondering if he was even alive, he was here. Or some place like here. Reinventing himself into this creature I barely recognize.
He finishes with a controlled descent, sliding down into a split on the stage floor, head bowed, chest heaving. Gold paint smears across his skin, revealing glimpses of the person underneath. For one unguarded moment, I see it—a flash of the boy I knew, vulnerable and real.
Then it’s gone.
Vincent’s professional mask slips back into place as he rises gracefully to his feet. He doesn’t bow. Doesn’t smile. Just begins to gather the money scattered at his feet, never making eye contact with the crowd still screaming his stage name.
He hasn’t seen me. Hasn’t felt my presence the way I always feel his. And suddenly I can’t breathe, can’t stay in this room watching him collect dollar bills thrown by strangers who don’t know him, don’t understand what he is.
I shove back from the table, toss a twenty by my untouched drink, and push through the crowd toward the exit. Bodies press against me, everyone trying to get closer to the stage, to Vincent, while I’m desperate to escape.
The night air hits me in the face when I finally break free of The Siren’s suffocating interior. I gulp it down, hands braced on my knees, trying to steady myself. The image of Vincent, golden and perfect, burns behind my eyelids when I close them.
I walk without direction, without purpose, just needing to put distance between myself and that club. Between myself and the truth that’s becoming harder to ignore with each step.
The Vincent Bell I knew is gone.
Maybe he was never real to begin with. Maybe he was just a character he played, like the Golden Prince, created for survival in a world determined to break him.
And maybe I’ve been chasing a ghost all these years, a memory that exists only in my mind. The boy who danced in moonlight, who made me laugh when nothing seemed funny, who looked at me like I mattered—he’s been replaced by someone I don’t recognize. Someone who doesn’t need me. Someone who left me behind without a second thought.
I stop walking, finding myself at the edge of campus, alone under a streetlight that flickers like it’s on its last breath. My hands are shaking. I shove them into my pockets and stare up at the night sky, obscured by light pollution and low clouds.
All those years I’ve carried the weight of his absence, and for what? So I could sit in the dark and watch him pretend I don’t exist?
No. This isn’t over. Not by a long shot. Vincent owes me answers, and I’m going to get them. Even if I have to tear down every wall he’s built around himself to do it.
5
Vincent
THE SPOTLIGHT CHASES ME, but it’s not the heat that makes my skin prickle. It’s his eyes. Three weeks he’s been coming here, sitting in the same dark corner, watching me like he’s memorizing every move. I don’t falter. I’ve performed this routine a thousand times. But my mind splits in two: my body on autopilot while my thoughts spiral around the question I can’t shake—why the fuck won’t Alex Orlov leave me alone?
I arch my back, sliding down the pole in a controlled descent that makes the crowd holler. The bass thumps through the floorboards, vibrating up through my feet and into my chest. The Siren’s lights wash the stage in blues and purples.
My hips roll to the beat, muscles working hard as I maintain the illusion of effortlessness. This is the performance—the magic trick of making strength look like surrender. The crowd thinks they’re watching abandon, but every move is calculated,rehearsed until my body could execute it in my sleep.
When I spin, the centrifugal force pulls at my body, and I catch a glimpse of him again. Alex hasn’t moved, hasn’t even pretended to look away. His focus is absolute, jaw clenched, shoulders rigid under that leather jacket he’s always wearing now. I wonder if he knows how much he looks like his father when he sits like that—all power and barely restrained violence.
After our confrontation at the frat house, I hoped he’d leave me alone. Thought maybe he’d gotten whatever closure he needed by slamming me against that tree and spitting his accusations in my face. But no—a few nights later, there he was, materializing at the club like a bad omen.
I expected him to approach and create a scene. But he just watched my set, finished his drink, and left without a word.
The next night, he returned. And the next. And now it’s become a ritual—Alex arriving fifteen minutes before my performance, leaving fifteen minutes after, never approaching, never speaking. Just watching with those haunted, angry eyes.
I drop into a floor routine, the cold stage against my palms as I work through a series of moves that show off the definition in my arms and torso. The crowd’s energy surges, feeding into my performance. I’ve gotten good at reading a room, at knowing exactly when to push and when to tease. But Alex doesn’t react like the others. He doesn’t cheer or whistle or wave bills. He just… consumes.
My first instinct when I spotted him here was to run. Pack my shit in the middle of the night, disappear to another city, another state. Find another club, another apartment, another life. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve vanished without a trace. I know how to become a ghost.
But the longer he came without approaching, the more astubborn part of me dug in its heels. Why should I run? I’ve worked hard to build something here, made real friends. Mark with his terrible jokes and worse cooking. Rina with her mama-bear protectiveness, even Kayla who pretends to hate everyone but sneaks cat food to the strays behind the club.
For years I’ve been free of the Orlovs, looking over my shoulder, waiting for Yuri to send someone after me. I’ve had nightmares where those cold eyes find me again. And now his son sits twenty feet away, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
The thought of Yuri discovering where I am sends ice through my veins, even now. But I’m so tired of running. Tired of letting the Orlovs dictate my life.
The song builds toward its climax, and I launch into the final sequence—a combination of pole work and floor choreography that I’ve been perfecting for months. My muscles burn with the exertion, sweat rolling down my back, but I push harder than usual. I hate to admit it, even to myself, but I’ve been putting extra effort into my routines since Alex started coming.
Why? I have no idea. Maybe to prove something to him. To show him I don’t need his family’s money or protection to succeed. Or is it something more pathetic? Some desperate need to impress him? To return that admiring gaze that followed me around the Orlov estate when we were teenagers?
