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I don't even know his name, yet I'm utterly entranced.
He shifts slightly, his intense gaze never leaving mine, and I feel my breath catch. Feeling this intense can't be good.
My brain screams run before I get in too deep, but I can't tear my eyes away from his. Can't stop cataloging every detail of his face—that strong jawline, those full lips, and the intensity lurking in his eyes.
I imagine tracing his face's contours, feeling his skin's warmth beneath my fingertips.
What would it be like to lose myself in his embrace?
My throat goes dry.
I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms, trying to anchor myself in reality.
This is insane. I don't know this man.
His body shifts closer, and I'm unable to meet his gaze any longer. Nervousness wells up inside me, and I quickly look away, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
I can't believe I'm reacting this way to a stranger. I can't afford to be distracted by a handsome face, no matter how captivating he is.
Love is consuming, and romantic love is deadly to my creativity. Because I'm bound to get lost in my emotions.
I'll just have to avoid eye contact with him for the rest of the night, that's all. Because I need my energy and emotions for stage, pouring my heart into my music. That's what I live for.
But he's different.
Enough hiding. Enough of the façade that's Drea Joy, that perfectly packaged pop princess. She's not me. Not really. I'm about to find my true voice, the one buried under layers of industry gloss. Fear's been my shadow, lurking, whispering. No more.
I take a deep breath, feeling the resolve tighten in my chest. This is it, the moment to step beyond my trepidation. I inch closer to Damien, my heart hammering a rapid beat.
The intensity of his gaze makes me uncomfortable. I feel as if those eyes can see the real me—the me no one sees but me.
"What's your name?" It's a simple question, but my voice quivers slightly.
He turns, a half-smile playing on his lips. "Damien," he replies, his eyes scanning my face with genuine interest.
"And your hair," he continues, "it's striking." He's looking at the mass of reddish-brown waves cascading over my shoulders, not the platinum-blonde wig of Drea Joy. "I prefer it natural."
An unexpected warmth floods through me, my stomach fluttering.
He sees me, not the persona. I'm raw, exposed, yet it feels right.
"Do you need anything before the concert?" His voice is dark and raspy, magnetic, completely grabbing my attention.
I take a moment to collect myself, shaking my head slightly, and avert my gaze, afraid of getting lost in his mesmerizing eyes. Instead, I focus on the clothes my stylist laid out for tonight's show. And, of course, the wig.
I groan inwardly. I'm not this person, I think, but there is nothing I can do about that. Because it’s been a long time since I stopped being myself.
"What I need is for all this to end," I whisper. But Damien can't fix that.
The mysterious club owner raises an eyebrow at me. His countenance is painted with confusion, but more than anything, there’s a sharpness in those eyes.
"Anyway, thank you," I tell him.
I turn around, and he lets me go, which feels strange to me.
The fabric of my performance outfit clings to my skin—a second persona I slip into. With each piece of clothing, Drea Joy's armor takes shape, and Andrea fades further into the background.
It's a transformation I've done countless times, yet it feels like betrayal every time the zipper seals me in.
