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Perry looks like he wants to ask more questions, but to his credit, decides to let it go. He hands me the box.

The paper is thick. Iridescent blue-green. Slightly off from Tiffany’s signature robin’s egg, but close enough to make me wary. The kind of off-brand expensive that screams custom—meaning intentional.

This wasn’t bought during a grocery run.

I loosen the velvet ribbon with slow, wary fingers. My skin prickles.

Inside, nestled in silk tissue: a silver bracelet. Lightweight. Oval chain links. And one charm—the unmistakable shape of a stage fan, the tiny ridges encrusted with mother-of-pearl chips.

My fingers tremble.

My lungs stop working entirely.

I know this bracelet. Not because it’s the same—it isn’t—but it’s so close that it punches through my memories like sunrise through blackout curtains.

It’s nearly an exact replica of the one Tonya gave me the night of my first solo spotlight. Velvet Nights Showcase at The Gentleman’s Study. My debut.

Sounds trashy to anyone outside the life, but to me? It was sacred. I worked two solid years just for the chance. Practiced routines every night with weights on my arms to keep my extensions fluid. Memorized every mistake a dancer could make and beat stage fright into submission like it owed me money.

And when it was over? I walked off that stage with more money than I'd made in an entire month, and Tonya took my wrist in one soft, practiced hand and slipped that bracelet on.

"Now you know how powerful you are,” she whispered.

I wore it every shift until the clasp broke and the last charm—a little high heel—fell off and disappeared behind a couch.

No one outside of Tonya and Charlie knew about that bracelet. My best friend and mentor. My daughter. Who else could it be from?

A hollow laugh escapes me. It feels brittle and dusty, coated in a kind of dread that’s darker than anything I expected from my Monday.

If this is some kind of post-hookup gesture from Malachi, I can’t. I just can’t.

That night was supposed to be it. A single chapter in the locked file cabinet of Wild Choices, sealed shut and buried under résumés and rent receipts and leftover guilt.

And now gifts?

I close the box, snap it shut with more force than necessary. My fingers want to shake, but I clench them hard.

I spot Perry. He’s coordinating with the floor lights tech now.

“Can you cover for me for twenty?” I ask, voice level. Already stepping toward the front hallway.

He nods without even asking. One more reason why I like him.

The stairwell to the second floor is quiet and somehow darker than before.

I march up two at a time, the wood creaking beneath my sneakers. His voice filters down before I see him—low, clipped, speaking some language I can't make out. It tumbles from sharp to fluid like rain over steel.

I reach the landing.

The door to his office is open. He’s stepping into the corridor, buttoning his shirt at the cuff with precise efficiency like he’s performing for a slow-motion cologne ad. Rolled sleeves. Collar slightly open. Hair unruly from rehearsal oversight.

My heart stutters despite everything in me that resists.

I plant myself directly in his path.

“Is this part of the package now?” I say, holding up the bracelet so the charm swings, catching the weak light. “One night together and suddenly we’re doing gifts? What’s next? Monogrammed lingerie and matching gravestones?”

He turns. Slowly.