Page 14 of The Rules

Blondie is here.

Chapter 5

Katherine

The dressing room hums with low music, the air thick with perfume and the faint bite of hairspray. Warm golden light spills from the mirrors, casting a soft glow over silk, lace, and sequins.

Blondie is born in stages.

The corset comes first—laced like armor, reshaping her into a fantasy no one touches, only watches. Each tug of the laces presses against her ribs, molding her into the version of herself that only exists under these lights. Her reflection watches, eyes steady, as she transforms piece by piece. The satin hugs her curves, accentuating every line, every shadow. A deep breath in, and the corset cinches tighter, a silent promise of control.

Then, the garter. The stockings. She slides them up her legs, feeling the cool silk against her skin. Each movement is deliberate, a ritual she’s perfected over countless nights.

The gold lace-trimmed robe drapes over her shoulders like a throne’s mantle. Every piece another layer of distance between Kath Winters and the woman they’ll see tonight. Fingers trace the intricate patterns on the fabric, a small comfort before she steps into the spotlight.

And last—the mask. A final barrier. A silent declaration.

She lifts it to her face, securing it with practiced ease. The world narrows to slivers of light and shadow through the eyeholes.

Her breath hitches slightly as she adjusts to the constriction, but she doesn’t falter. This is who she becomes when night falls—Blondie, untouchable and unyielding.

She stands before the mirror one last time, checking every detail. The corset gleams under the soft light, catching every curve and angle perfectly crafted for this moment. The stockings shimmer with each slight movement, a dance of light and shadow that promises more than it reveals. And the mask—ithides everything but her eyes, which burn with a fierce determination that belies any hint of vulnerability beneath.

Across the room, Luna watches from her mirror, lips curling as she adjusts her thigh-highs. “You’re glowing tonight.

Got someone special in the audience?"

Kath rolls her eyes, fastening the final clasp at the nape of her neck. “Yeah. My landlord. Praying he gets drunk enough to forget I’m late on rent."

Luna snickers, but Rea, perched on the counter, is less amused. She swipes a gloss wand over her lips with slow, deliberate precision, voice cool, calculating. “Forget rent.

You should be aiming higher. Sugar daddies, politicians, old money with guilty consciences. Let them fund your escapism."

Kath snorts, slipping on her heels. “Tempting. But I prefer my strings unattached."

Luna waggles her brows. “So no secret lover weeping for you in the audience tonight?"

Kath waves a dismissive hand. “If a man cries over me, it better be because I took his wallet and ran."

Laughter crackles between them, light, electric. A moment suspended in gold and velvet.

Then, a voice from the doorway.

“Blondie, you’re up."

She meets her reflection one last time. The mask settles.

The lines between real and unreal blur.

The game begins.

The bassline hits—slow, deep, winding through the haze-lit club like a whispered promise. Smoke curls in the air, catching in the golden glow of the stage lights. The crowd shifts.

Drinks pause midair. Conversations taper into a low hum of anticipation.

Blondie steps onto the stage, and the room shifts. The air thickens, charged with a current that seems to pulse in sync with the low, steady throb of the room. The murmurs of the crowdfade into a hushed silence, all eyes drawn to her like filings to a magnet.

She moves with purpose, her hips swaying in a rhythm that's deliberate, just shy of lazy. Controlled. Each step is a deliberate punctuation, her body spelling out a language of control few can read, none can answer. The silk of her robe teases over bare skin, a whisper of sensation that sends a shiver down her spine.