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I want to be known.

“Eighteen hundred!” I holler, my voice lost in the pulsing beat and driving bass and throbbing melody of the club.

There’s no way he can hear me, but he lifts a glass in my direction.

I never thought it would feel so damn good to have this moment and, more than that, to share it with someone.

When I flip both middle fingers in the air, his smirk fades.

He’s too far away to read what’s in his eyes, but he holds my gaze.

What passes between us is more than reciprocity. Connection, understanding, a tacit agreement that we built this together.

I want to celebrate with him. To tell him how fucking good it feels.

“You think you can teach me about sex?”

“No. I think I can teach you about yourself.”

Each song bleeds into the next, and I bleed with them. When the set wraps, I don’t know if it’s been an hour or a year.

I’m energized and exhausted, sweaty and exhilarated.

I need to take selfies with fans, but as I trip out of the booth, someone beats me there.

The man looms over me in a designer suit, a shock of red silk in his breast pocket resembling a wound. “You are a rare talent.”

He’s all muscle, his head buzzed, his eyes cold. As if there’s nothing behind them but emptiness.

I look over his shoulder at my waiting fans that security is holding at bay.

“I’m a friend of the owner,” he says, answering my unasked question of how he got back here.

“Which friend?” I don’t want to cause a scene, but I also don’t want this prick in my face.

“I’m sure you don’t know all Harrison King’s friends.”

“Try me.”

His grip tightens on my wrist, and I twist away. He grabs my other wrist too, and I bite down on a cry of pain.

“I’ve been asking myself a question all day. Why would he give this up for you?”

He must be talking about Harrison, but I have no idea what he means.

My breathing is off the rhythm of the afterparty song, but all I feel is my ribs expanding and contracting against the gold dress I chose at a boutique yesterday with Ash’s help.

He pins me in the curtains backstage, his cloying cologne drowning me.

Sweat rolls down my neck, my body already straining to run. I reach for the only weapon I have—the defiance I’ve clung to for weeks, months.

“If you have a thing for Harrison,” I manage, “you’re out of luck. I don’t think you’re his type.”

Fireworks explode behind my eye socket, impossible heat blossoming across my cheek. The physical impact stuns me.

On the other side of the stage, security is dealing with the crowd and giving me a minute to get ready.

I wish they weren’t.