Beautiful Strangers.

I yanked my hand free, my palm clenched tight.

My chest rose and fell in short, frantic bursts—but I didn’t run.

Curiosity rooted me to the spot. I turned.

He stood there, a towering silhouette against the dim, smoky light of the club. His body was built like a sculptor’s masterpiece—broad shoulders, toned arms, and an effortless dominance only danger could wear.

My eyes betrayed me, dragging themselves along every line of him before I could command them to behave. A dark mop of black hair crowned his head, messy yet maddeningly perfect, falling across his forehead in reckless waves.

His face—at least what I could see of it—was partially hidden behind a black mask. But it was his eyes that held me down.

They were the strangest, most beautiful shade of brown mixed with blue, as if the heavens couldn’t decide which one suited him more.

The light caught them just right, and for a second, I swore they changed color entirely.

“Who are you?” His voice rumbled low, slicing through the bass-heavy music and the crude cheers from the stage.

I blinked out of my trance, my throat dry. “I’m sorry, sir,” I murmured. “I think I’m in the wrong place.”

I turned, ready to vanish—but his hand caught my arm. Not rough, just… final.

“You didn’t answer my question, bellissima. Who are you?”

The words dripped with challenge, like he already knew the answer and was daring me to lie.

I swallowed hard.

“I… I came to look for a job. A friend invited me.”

I glanced up, and that was a huge mistake.

He stared at me like he could see the truth I didn’t want to give.

“Look, sir. I don’t want trouble. Just let me go.”

He laughed—a low, dangerous sound that made my skin crawl.

“How hard were your English lessons, sweetheart?”

I frowned. “Excuse me?”

He stepped closer. I stepped back.

“Answer the question,” he hissed out, reaching for my face—just a strand of hair, but it felt like he was tugging on my heartbeat.

My heart pounded so loud, I was afraid he’d hear it.

Why did he care who I was?

I wanted to scream, to shove him away, to bolt—but something about him made it feel like running would only make things worse.

“Alice,” I whispered.

Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into the shadows.

I stood frozen, hollow.

“Alice?” A voice called behind me.

I spun. A woman smiled—a vision of old-world elegance: platinum hair, crimson lips, skin like porcelain. She didn’t belong in this century.

“You’re here for a job?” She asked.

I nodded.

“Follow me.”

Her heels clicked against the marble, echoing power. I followed, silent, shaken.

The hallway swallowed us—blood-red walls, golden lamps, shadows that moved like they were watching.

She stopped before double doors and pushed them open.

A rush of chilled air and strawberry scent wrapped around me. Soft pink walls, a glass desk, a white carpet—it felt like a dream stitched over something darker.

“Sit, Alice,” she permitted.

I obeyed.

“Drink? Wine, tea, juice?”

“Anything’s fine,” I whispered.

Nothing in Milan had felt right. Not the streets. Not Carly in the park. Not this club. And certainly not him.

The woman returned with mango juice, sat across from me, and finally introduced herself.

“I’m Elaine Pierce. HR Manager of Blood and Bourbon | DeVescori Lounge.”

Blood and Bourbon. The name was ghostly, unnerving. It was Wrong in a way I couldn’t explain.

“I’m guessing someone from our recruiting team—maybe Carly—invited you,” she added, as if checking off a mental list.

So Carly wasn’t just a friendly bartender like she claimed.

Well… I have to hand it to her, she played her part flawlessly. I walked right into this place without even asking questions.

“We offer a wide range of job opportunities,” she continued. “Bartending, waitstaff, kitchen crew, room attendants for our private suites, or—as I’m sure you noticed—strip performance.”

My heart dropped, a heavy thud in my belly. I swallowed hard.

Elaine’s eyes twinkled knowingly, and she let out a light laugh. Not mocking—just aware.

“You don’t have to worry,” she assured me. “No one will force you into anything. I was simply listing the available roles.”

I gave a small nod, the tension in my shoulders softening—just a little.

“And on themed nights, we showcase talent. Music. Art. Singing.”

She watched me closely.

“What speaks to you the most?”

I didn’t answer. Not right away.

The truth pulsed in my chest: music. Always music.

But did I still have the strength to share that part of myself?

I took a sip of juice. “How much does a performer earn?”

“A thousand per performance. More depending on audience requests… or private bookings.”

She let the words linger.

Private.

The word made my skin crawl.

But a thousand dollars? That’s a great start to my building my finances again.

“When can I start?” I asked.

Her lips curled. “Singing or instruments?”

“Both.”

She slid a red folder across the desk.

Inside: four lines.

Loyalty is non-negotiable.

All talent belongs to DeVescori Lounge.

Confidentiality ensures protection.

Absence without permission equals termination.

That was it.

No legal jargon. No disclaimers. Just… commands.

“Is this all?” I asked.

She nodded.

I signed.

The ink felt like blood.

“When do I start?”

“Tonight, if you want.”

I hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll do it.”

Her smile widened. “Come with me.”

We moved through back corridors, deeper into the club’s belly. The air changed—cooler, and heavier.

She led me into a backstage area humming with quiet chaos—crew, performers, mirrors, costumes. I felt out of place.

She returned with a soft smile. “The stage is set.”

I wasn’t ready. But I nodded.

I followed her to the curtain.

Then I stopped.

“Can I wear a mask? Or… a veil?”

She tilted her head, studying me—then smiled like she’d just won a bet.

“Of course,” she said smoothly, then turned and called out, “Bring her what she needs.”

The piano was rolled onto the stage, its polished surface gleaming under the spotlight.

A man nodded at me, then helped lower me onto the bench. My legs barely held me.

Fingers trembling, I hovered over the keys.

Silence thickened—no glasses clinking, no murmurs—just the hum of electricity and the pounding in my chest.

I didn’t greet them. I didn’t introduce myself. I didn’t want them to know my name. Not yet.

I drew in a slow breath, exhaled, and touched the keys.

A single note rang out.

And just like that, I wasn’t Alice the prisoner. Or Alice the desperate girl in search of a job.

I was just… me.

My voice followed—soft, uncertain, but full of things I’d never said aloud.

The song wasn’t written. It was born in that moment. Each word raw, shaped by pain and silence. Each note a memory.

My fingers moved on instinct. The melody wove itself around the room, fragile and haunting.

Then came the final note—sharp and high, like silk tearing in a quiet room.

Stillness.

No claps. No whispers. Just the weight of a thousand unspoken things.

And then—

Clap.

Firm. Certain.

Then another. And more.

Applause swelled until it thundered through the lounge.

They were clapping. For me.

My vision blurred. My body trembled. The tears came fast and uninvited.

Rick. My grandmother. The courtroom. My name echoing in a place meant to break me.

I pushed away from the bench and stumbled offstage.

“Alice, that was—”

I didn’t stop. I tore off the veil, tossed it aside, and ran.

The hallway blurred. My chest burned. I didn’t know where I was going—only that I needed to breathe.

Then I collided into something hard. Someone.

“Sorry,” I gasped, moving to pass.

But a hand caught my arm.

I stiffened, teeth clenched. Not now.

I wiped my eyes and looked up.

Tall. Broad. Polished in that dangerous kind of way. Steel-grey eyes. A beard trimmed to perfection. Power radiated from him like heat.

He didn’t flinch under my glare.

“I said I’m sorry,” I snapped. “Can I go?”

His gaze never wavered. “I want you to be my private singer.”

Not a question. A command.

I stared at him, stunned. “Excuse me? Who do you think you are?”

He stepped closer. I stepped back.

“I don’t take orders from strangers,” I hissed.

He said nothing. Just studied me, memorizing my face.

Then, calmly: “You start Saturday. My driver will collect you. You won’t perform here again.”

And just like that—he was gone.

No name. No request. Just a decree, like I belonged to him already.

I stood frozen. Furious. Shaken.

And maybe… a little scared.