Chapter 8 The Stage

• The club breathes heat and hush money. Neon lights paint half-naked promises on every mirrored wall, but under the glitter it still stinks of spilled gin, cheap cologne, and the hunger men can’t hide.
• Ellerei Vale stands backstage, half-bent over a cracked vanity mirror. A platinum wig sweeps blunt bangs over her eyes, softening the sharp line of her jaw. Her lips are glossed sticky red. The outfit’s nothing — scraps of satin and sequins that hide less than they pretend.
• She hates every stitch of it. But hate never paid the bills.