Page 36

At least Taylor is doing well at ABTC now.

The sacrifice was worth it. Two months ago, ABTC poached Taylor from Petit Jeté, and with my generous wages here, I was able to support her dreams. Taylor called me two days ago after her first showcase there.

The excitement seeping from her voice over the phone brought me to tears.

My sister is happy, so happy, and living her best life.

What’s one more year? If I could turn back time, I wouldn’t have changed a thing, other than maybe killing Carl myself.

I’m so entrenched in my thoughts, I make a rookie mistake, momentarily forgetting the first lesson Mom taught us as young women growing up in the underbelly of the Bronx—pay attention to your surroundings.

A flash of black slams into me from the front with the force of a linebacker and before my lips can part in a cry, my feet, clad in five-inch heels, wobble from the impact, and I topple backward, my arms flailing.

Time slows as the ceiling lights swirl together and my muscles tense, my eyes clamping shut as I brace myself for the hard impact on the wooden floor.

But the floor never comes.

Instead, strong arms curl around my back, stopping what would’ve been a humiliating disaster in an already difficult night.

My nose registers the spicy cologne of the ocean and leather.

My body registers the familiar warmth and strength of the man holding me upright.

My heart gallops, my lungs drawing in deep inhales of the familiar, intoxicating scent.

Then my eyes finally flutter open.

Steven’s beautiful face stares down at me and in a moment of weakness, a blip of disorientation, my fingers curl into the hard muscles of his forearms.

And I want to cry.

Relief. Security. Sadness. Elation.

My lips wobble as I watch his tiger stone eyes darken with intensity, his brows furrowed with concern. My fingers dig harder into his flesh, as if to verify he’s really here, standing before me. My grip must hurt, but he doesn’t even flinch .

In this split second where the world stops spinning around me, where my thoughts are waylaid by the rush of emotions inside me, everything ceases to matter, because I’m Grace, and he’s Steven, and we’re just friends, and he found me…

even though I ran away from him, but fate brought us back together and everything will be okay.

The feeling of safety only he can give me cloaks me in its warmth, and if this is a dream, I never want to wake up.

“Grace?” His deep, raspy voice jolts me awake as effectively as a bucket of ice water over my head.

He pulls me to a standing position, and I drop his arms like they’ve burned me.

The wires in my brain finally connect and thoughts race in like a barrage of texts on your birthday, except this isn’t joyous. It can’t be. The sticky heat of anxiety coats my insides, and I shrink away. He can’t know I work here. He can’t know what I do here.

I want him to remember me as before.

“S-Sorry, sir. You’re mistaken.”

Without waiting for his response, I turn away, striding toward the game tables once more, desperate to reach the exits at the far corner of the room, my feet feeling like they’re weighed down by lead, but I persist.

“Wait, Grace!”

I hear his calls behind me as I dart back into the crowds again, hoping he’d give up on chasing me.

Pushing my way through throngs of expensive suits and fancy dresses, I walk faster, as fast as these heels can carry me, all the while trying to maintain a serene expression on my face, because nothing is unusual about a lady dressed to the nines, crossing the room with the desperation of criminals fleeing the scene of a crime.

Just as I am about to reach one of the double doors to the ballroom, a strong hand grips my wrist, halting my escape.

“Beautiful Genevieve, I never thought I’d say this, but you look almost as gorgeous in that dress as you do without your clothes on.” The interloper tugs me to him and his hand slides over my stomach as rancid breath hits my nose .

I close my eyes and bite my tongue to keep from cringing. Focusing on the sharp pain in my mouth, I turn to the man behind me and tick my lips up into a demure smile.

“Mr. Voss, you are too kind.” Gently, I pry his hands off me and step back. “And I’ve always worn costumes at the club.”

Timothy Voss, the bane of everyone’s existence, especially TransAmerica, is a frequenter to Trésor—every other Friday, to be exact.

Unfortunately, he always “greeted me” there, his grubby hands always a millimeter away from my skin and oftentimes he’d have “accidents,” where his fingers would skate over my breasts or he’d press up against me in the guise of having to move and inadvertently grind his disgusting bulge on my stomach.

Then there were the many unwanted solicitations and lewd comments I tried my best to forget about.

Sofia has posted a bouncer next to me whenever Timothy steps through those rosewood doors and I know he’s a few strikes away from being kicked out of the establishment. But as of now, he is still a patron.

Which means I need to grit my teeth and put on my big girl pants.

Timothy’s thick hands circle my waist again, his fingers splayed over the tops of my ass.

“Your little scraps of clothing aren’t costumes.

They are an invitation. We’re not at Trésor, sweetheart.

The no touch rule doesn’t apply here. Why don’t I book us a private suite upstairs and we can have some fun tonight? ”

My fingers attempt to pry his hands off me, but this time, he holds on tight, a smarmy smile decorating his face. “I’m not interested, Mr. Voss. Unhand me, please.”

Instead of letting me go, he spreads his legs and pulls me closer to him, so I’m now standing half an inch away from his suit-covered beer belly. “Come on, sweetheart, you’ve enjoyed our conversations, right? I’ve seen you shake your body at me on the stage. I tip very well.”

His hand moves suddenly, and he paws my cleavage. “Your tits are so fuckable,” he whispers in my ear.

My stomach roils in an uproar, and I swallow the revulsion creeping my throat.

I grab his hand to wrench it off from my chest, my body feeling soiled, disgusting from his caress.

My pulse riots and fear slams through me.

His hand grips my arm instead, and he smiles at me, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “No, Mr. Voss—”

“Let go of her this instant,” an unmistakable voice barks from our right, drawing the attention of many people in the vicinity.

Six simple words. Venom-laced anger.

As if his sanity is held on by the thinnest thread and he’s mere moments away from snapping. And God help whoever is around him whenever that happens.

My thoughts when I first met Steven bubble up in this inopportune moment and I let out a hiccup. My mind is going mad.

Timothy glances at Steven, who has caught up to me with the stealth of a black panther prowling the forest at night. “Kingsley, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m—”

“I don’t give a flying fuck who you are.

One last chance. Take your filthy paws off her or I’ll rip them off and shove them down your throat and watch you choke to death.

I swear, there’ll be murder on these floors tonight,” Steven growls as he curls one hand around Timothy’s blood red tie and pulls, his knuckles flashing white.

Timothy chokes and gasps for air, his face turning red, his hands immediately falling away to grip his tie that is quickly becoming a noose under Steven’s wrath.

Shrieks and gasps surround us as the sharks in the room are drawn to the display of bloodlust in front of them.

My heart pounds a mile a minute, threatening to break apart at its seams and my breathing comes out in rapid bursts as my attention is focused on the tall, threatening man in front of me, his molten eyes flashing with violence, his lips parted in a snarl, baring his blinding white teeth.

A vein pulses in his forehead as he pulls harder on the bastard’s tie and Timothy’s choking sounds fill the air.

“Don’t you fucking dare touch her. Don’t you fucking dare even look in her direction, you disgusting pig. If you try anything again, I’ll make sure that’s the last thing you ever do. ”

Steven’s face is twisted, flushed, his deep voice sharp and rough like a hacksaw. Everyone shrinks away, obviously fearful of the cold Kingsley losing it in the ballroom.

But my heart clenches, the tears which abated making a resurgence. I let out a ragged exhale, which somehow draws his attention away from Timothy. His head spins toward me, his eyes skating over my face and my body as if making sure I’m okay.

I nod, my cheeks wet, and I realize the tears I’ve been holding in for so long have finally broken past the dam inside me.

I’m not alone anymore.

It’s as if my body knows everything will be okay because he’s here.

And I can finally cry.

A flash of pain appears in Steven’s eyes, and he locks his jaw before releasing a growl. Whipping his face toward Timothy, who is turning purple, he leans in, and murmurs, “How does it feel, being completely helpless? You fucking piece of shit—”

“Steven. Hey, Steven, let him go.” Jack Szeto appears out of nowhere, bringing at least a dozen staff members who are busy dispersing the crowd surrounding us, and waiters float by with trays of alcohol, as if plying the bystanders with spirits will somehow make them forget the insanity happening now.

Jack whispers in Steven’s ear as his hand slowly releases Steven’s clenched fingers. Steven’s broad frame shudders before his head dips in a curt nod. Blowing out a deep exhale, he releases Timothy, who bowls over and gasps for breath.

“K-Kingsley,” he chokes out, “You’ll be sorry. We’ll s-sue you—”

“Mr. Voss, please kindly shut your trap and recuperate in the backroom,” Jack commands, his voice strong and clear, leaving no room for arguments. “We don’t condone sexual assault or harassment at The Orchid toward any of our patrons or our employees. Your membership is revoked immediately. ”