Page 94 of The Rules

It's just a warning.

But her pulse raced like it was already too late, like danger was already at her door.

A knock startled her, followed by Ian's voice from the other side—calm, grounding in its familiarity.

"Blondie. You're up."

Kath inhaled sharply. One breath. Then another. She could do this. She had to.

She wiped her hands on a paper towel, fixed the edge of her mask where it had begun to slip, and straightened her shoulders.

And stepped out.

Because the show didn't stop. Even when your world was about to crack.

The second the lights hit her, Kath moved. Her body slipped into the familiar rhythm, hips swaying with practiced precision, arms flowing through the air like silk caught in a breeze.

Every movement was flawless, timed perfectly to the pulsing bass that vibrated through the floor beneath her feet.

But it wasn't real.

Her body was there, dancing across the stage, but her mind remained trapped in that bathroom, staring at the photograph. Lisa's face, unaware and vulnerable, haunted her with each step. The words beneath the image echoed in time with the music.

"You should be more careful about the people you care about."

Her pulse raced too fast, her focus fractured into jagged pieces. She moved through her routine like a ghost, present but not present, adrift in a sea of faces that blurred into meaningless shapes. The familiar sanctuary of the stage had become just another place where she was utterly alone, cracking beneath the surface while maintaining the illusion of control.

And then—she felt him.

Before she even saw him. A presence that cut through her panic like a blade.

Her gaze shifted, cutting through the dim light to the shadows at the back of the room. And there he was. Mr. S. His sharp suit absorbed the darkness around him, his posture still as stone.

He watched her with that unwavering focus, like she was the only thing that existed in the entire room.

And something clicked.

Tonight, we're still safe. It's just a warning.

She’d already told herself that. Whispered it in the mirror, clung to it like a shield. But it hadn’t settled—hadn’t felt real.

Not until now.

Not until she saw him.

Her breath evened—just a little. Her focus sharpened, pulling her back into her body. Each movement became deliberate again, purposeful. She wasn't dancing for the crowd anymore. Not for the paycheck. For him.

She danced for the man who didn't know she was falling apart.

And somehow, it saved her.

Not completely. But enough.

By the end of her set, her pulse had steadied. Her breath came deeper, more controlled. Her mask was back on—both literal and figurative.

She wasn't okay.

But she was still standing.