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CHAPTER TWELVE

I wake slowly Thursday morning. Thick blackout curtains mute the daylight and leave my room shadowed. I lay there listening to the low sound of room service carts, the distant thuds of doors in the hallway, and muffled conversation as Nitro’s people head out for their day.

Qatar. Race week.

I slip my left hand free of the covers and lift it overhead. The ring remains on my finger, winking in the low light like a saucy little bitch.

Yup. Still married.

So weird .

I stretch, every muscle aching with the soft fatigue of the night before.

It wasn’t a stage performance, but it might as well’ve been.

Smiling for hours without looking desperate, maintaining perfect posture without looking like someone rammed a stick up my ass, tracking every fucking little invisible social cue. Last night sucked the life outa me.

Still, I smile as I sit up and order breakfast.

Twenty minutes later, there's a soft knock at the door. "Room service," calls a polite voice.

I pull on a hotel robe and cross to the door, opening it to find a young man with a cart.

"Good morning, Mrs. Pritchard. Your breakfast."

Mrs. Pritchard.

The name still feels like someone else's clothing I've borrowed.

"Thank you." I step aside to let him wheel the cart in.

He arranges everything with practiced efficiency, then pauses at the door. "Is there anything else you require?"

"No, this is perfect." I reach for my purse, but he shakes his head. "It's all taken care of, ma'am." He smiles politely. "Enjoy your day."

When he's gone, I consider the ridiculous spread — silver domes, pressed white linens, fresh flowers tucked into the napkin fold. It's something from a movie, and it feels too posh.

This breakfast is for a woman accustomed to room service and caviar, champagne and pearls and dove gray cashmere.

It’s not for a girl raised in a one-bedroom apartment on food stamps and church donations and whatever leftovers Gran brought home from D’s All-Nighter, her other-other part-time job.

It’s not for a girl who’s been pretending to be special since she was old enough to twirl.

The one who’s still pretending, still faking it ’til she makes it.

“Pretty sure you don’t have to fake anything, Mai.” That’s what Reece said last night, and I wonder how he can be so sure.

I hesitate, guilt gnawing at me. I was told it was okay, that my husband can afford it.

Still, the little voice in my head — the one grateful for free lunch programs — whispers that this is a luxury I'm not supposed to touch.

Back home, we never went out for breakfast. You got what you could with food stamps and charity or you didn't eat. This feels like cheating.

Still, I’m not stupid. I’m not gonna let this food or this room or any of this opportunity go to waste. So I sit. But just as I'm lifting the silver dome, there's a knock at the door. Another delivery.

When I open it, I'm hit with the heady scent of roses — not just a dozen, but dozens and dozens and dozens of perfect crimson blooms, arranged in a massive, overflowing bouquet.

The concierge wheels it in with a smile and a quiet, "Compliments of Mr. Pritchard.

" He shifts the first night’s flowers to the low coffee table, then places this extravagant display by the window and leaves.

I stare at the sea of flawless red blossoms, overwhelmed in a way that has nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with my heart cracking wide open.

Then I remember the performance of a lifetime I gave last night and shake off hesitation. Sitting down, I pour a cup of coffee and lift the lid on a perfect plate of fruit, eggs, and a lovely croissant.

“Damn it, Maiken, you deserve this.”

As I eat, I ponder last night’s dinner. There’d been polished silver and bone china, caviar canapés passed around like candy, and Veuve Clicquot flowing freely.

The sheer effortless luxury of it all had overwhelmed me, though I'd hidden it behind smiles and laughter.

It wasn't just the display of wealth. It was the expectation of always having that much wealth, of taking it for granted.

It was a whole other universe. And somehow, I was expected to walk in like I belonged there.

Fuck. Me.

That kind of careless wealth is so alien, it’s unsettling. I mean, when you’ve been dirt poor, what do you do with that kind of shift in reality? I don’t even know how to wrap my head around it.

That Reece realizes how fucking weird this situation is for me, earns him another positive checkmark on his balance sheet.

That and the roses.

After breakfast, I snap a few photos of my room’s ridiculously huge bed, the fancy-ass bathroom, and the sprawling view of the marina, then text them to Frankie with a laughing emoji.

How long d’you think before someone figures out I’m the raggedy version of Cinderella and that shoe ain’t never gonna fit?

Then I check in with Delilah and Yasmine to make sure everything's okay at the club and with the students.

Delilah responds.

All good. You just focus on being fabulous.

Her message makes me smile. Two days ago, I was just Mai-Lan Rouge, burlesque performer from Vegas. Now I'm being chauffeured around Qatar, sleeping in a suite that makes my jaw drop, and being told to be "fabulous" like it's my new job description.

Well, if fabulous is what they want...

I put my phone aside and fetch my sewing kit and one of the projects I brought along.

My Cherry Bomb corset needs finishing, and the familiar ritual of stitching sequins and seed beads is a meditative way to pass the morning.

There's something grounding about working with my hands, connecting me to the life I’ve built for myself back home.

By midday, the corset is coming together beautifully, rows of cherry-red sequins gleaming against glossy red fabric. I stretch, rolling my neck to release stiffness as I gaze around the luxurious room.

It’s absurd, really. I’m sewing a handmade burlesque costume surrounded by obscene luxury. This is working-class work done in a setting that drips with privilege.

That contrast sparks an idea. Since I'm gonna be thrust into the spotlight as Reece Pritchard's scandalous new wife, I might as well control the narrative.

"Waste not, want not." I set the corset aside and go to the dresser to look through the lingerie sets Branca and her team picked out for me. They may have avoided risk in the closet, but there’s plenty of risqué here.

I fish out a black lace bralette and matching high-waisted panties with delicate gold embroidery.

The set is pure silk, and I admire its craftsmanship while forming a plan.

I add a sheer black lace and satin robe that whispers around my legs when I move. Sexy, but still just within the bounds of classy. I gotta wonder what ulterior motives my husband’s manager had when she chose this.

Also? Qatari wives have some secrets .

I curl my hair into soft waves and spend a good hour getting my makeup flawless, including the smokiest eye with some extra drama in the form of tiny crystals at the inside and outside corners.

A swipe of deep red lipstick finishes the look.

Then I use coverup and powder to disappear the bruises from my wrist. They’ve turned a sickly greenish hue. Not sexy at all.

I set up my camera phone and pose by the window with the new bouquet from Reece, an avalanche of perfect crimson roses to mirror the red on my lips.

I’m going for elegance meets absolutely no illusion of innocence.

I lift the deep red blooms to my cheek, hiding my breasts behind them, but allowing one bare shoulder to peek out just enough to tease without crossing the line.

I snap a few selfies, checking the angles. On the third try, I nail it: a wink, a smile, and just enough skin to make it clear I’m not the sweet princess some of these people expected Reece Pritchard to wed.

I post it to my performer account with a saucy caption.

@MaiLanRouge: Married, not tamed. #MaiLanRouge #CherryBomb #ThisIsBurlesqueBaby

After the post is live, I pluck the card from the newest bouquet. I’d forgotten all about it.

Thank you for making me the luckiest man in any room. —RP 11

Holy shit.

I trace the edge of the card with my thumb, lower lip between my teeth and breath a little uneven.

Maybe I'm not the only one figuring this shit out.

Last night, Reece saw me struggling in a world I had no map for, and he didn't make me feel small for it. Instead, he directed me with subtlety, without judgment, without dismissing me.

Then he’d apologized at my door with a sincerity so raw it nearly broke me.

I'd dug deep to stay composed in front of him, but the moment I closed myself in the shower, I'd sobbed, washing off the night's tension, my makeup, and the knot of emotion I couldn't hold inside any longer. I’d been exhausted, grateful, and overwhelmed by his goodness.

And terrified because part of me still asks if I deserve a man like Reece Pritchard.

Especially after Lear Valjean, the high roller who treated me like a plaything and a disposable prop for his rebellion against the life he hated. Lear flaunted me until I stopped being convenient and started asking for more. Then he made me feel small and stupid and unworthy.

Lear made me feel like garbage.

I look around the beautiful room and take in the gorgeous flowers.

Reece makes me feel like a queen.

The contrast between them is a chasm , and it's that deep, brutal difference that makes trusting Reece so much scarier.

Because if he’s the real deal, if his kindness is genuine, then I have something truly special to lose.

“Shit. Fuck. Piss.”

Life was so much easier B.R.P. — Before Reece Pritchard.