UNHALLOWED

4 Shimmers, Sequins, and Sweat

CHAPTER 4

Shimmers, Sequins, and Sweat

“Thank you so much, London! You were absolutely incredible!” Rory’s voice rang out one last time, a shimmering thread of sound barely cutting through the absolute thunder of eighty thousand people.

The arena did not just cheer; it fully shook. A deafening wall of screams and hysterical cries rose from the floor to the rafters, a tidal wave of adoration from fans who were physically overwhelmed by the spectacle they had just witnessed. As the stage lights began to pulse in a final, blinding rhythm, Rory stood at the center of the storm, the “Global Pop Icon” bathed in shimmers, sequins, and sweat.

Beneath the practiced radiance of her smile, a profound sense of relief settled into her bones. This was it—the final, grueling stop of her European leg. For months, she had lived in hotels and stadiums, moving like a tactical asset from one city to the next. Now, the anticipation of silence was almost more intoxicating than the applause.

She had a week. Seven days where she could vanish and relax, and Rory could simply exist as Rory. A week of sanctuary before the machine spun back to life for the North American leg of the tour. As she waved a final time and the hydraulic lift began its slow, smooth descent beneath the stage, she let the mask slip just a fraction. She was heading toward the quiet, blissfully unaware that while her tour leg had ended, a much more dangerous game was just beginning in the shadows of the third floor.

The moment Rory’s four-inched heeled boots hit the concrete of the sub-stage, the high-octane energy of the arena was replaced by the frantic, clockwork precision of her ‘mission’ team.

Immediately, her personal assistant, Marissa, stepped into her line of sight with the practiced timing of a practiced squire. She held out an open bottle of room-temperature mineral water—Rory’s preferred brand, specifically chosen to protect her vocal cords. Rory grabbed it with a nod, her throat parched from the two-hour set, and chugged the water thirstily. The liquid was the first thing that felt real after the artificial heat of the stage lights.

“You were incredible up there, Rory. Truly, as always,” Marissa said, her eyes shining with genuine pride as she began draping a silk robe over the icon’s shimmering shoulders.

Rory offered a sharp, appreciative smile as she swallowed the last of the water, her mind already shifting from performer to analyst. The adrenaline was still humming in her veins, but her focus was clinical.

“Thanks, Riss. The team killed it tonight,” Rory replied, her voice slightly raspy but steady. She handed the empty bottle back, her golden eyes narrowing as she recalled a specific moment from the set. “Do me a favor? Contact the techs. The monitor feed in my left in-ear was lagging—maybe a few milliseconds of delay—during the sixth song. I had to track the bass manually to stay on tempo. Make sure they calibrate the wireless bridge before the New York kick-off. Thank you.”

Marissa blinked, always amazed at Rory’s ability to catch a millisecond glitch in the middle of a screaming stadium. “On it. I will have them pull the logs tonight.”

Rory gave a final, appreciative nod to her team before slipping into the sanctuary of her dressing room, the heavy door clicking shut to seal out the lingering roar of the arena. Inside, the transition began. The “Global Pop Icon” started to dissolve as she stripped away the weighted silver costume, the intricate pieces falling to the floor like discarded armor. She was desperate to shed the sweat and the stage makeup, longing for the simple, grounded comfort of her oversized sweats—the only uniform that let her feel like herself again.

When she was done, she was already turning toward the elevator that would take her to the basement, where her driver was already waiting as her bodyguards were now escorting her out. She reached for her heavy, noise-canceling headphones, ready to swap the roar of the world for the cold, sharp strings of Vivaldi. She wanted the silence. She wanted her private suite in the hotel and to sleep.

After reaching the sanctuary of her hotel suite, Rory surrendered to a long, steaming shower that finally washed the lingering scent of hairspray and adrenaline from her skin. She indulged in the one thing the tour diet usually forbade—a greasy room-service pizza—before collapsing into the oversized bed.

But sleep was a fickle friend.

At the ungodly hour of four in the morning, her eyes snapped open. The silence of the suite felt too heavy, her mind already revving back into a busy mode. Giving up on rest, she dragged herself out of the sheets and shed her pajamas for high-performance activewear. She threw on a heavy hoodie, pulling the cowl low to obscure her famous features, and snapped her noise-canceling headphones into place. After a quick check of her laces, she slipped out of the suite, heading for the hotel’s 24-hour gym.

“Perfect,” she breathed, the word a small puff of air in the chilled room. The gym was a desert of chrome and shadows, completely abandoned.

She made a beeline for the treadmill, her very long legs moving in a rhythmic, punishing warm-up that flushed the last of the grogginess from her system. Once her heart rate hit the target zone and reached her desired distance, she stepped off and shed the hoodie.

Rory reached into her duffel bag, pulling out her well-worn kickboxing gloves. As she strapped them on, the aggressive, jagged intro of Disturbed’s “Down With The Sickness” exploded in her ears. The shift in her energy was instantaneous. The “Global Pop Icon” vanished, replaced by a woman who knew exactly how to channel her rage into a strike.

Thwack.

The sound of her first punch echoed like a gunshot through the empty facility. She moved with the predatory grace of a fighter, her fists a blur of motion as she unloaded on the heavy bag. Each hit was a calculated explosion of power that perfectly matched the visceral beat of the rock anthem. She did not just punch; she integrated lethal, snapping kicks that landed with enough force to make the heavy chain rattle against the ceiling. In the silence of the four a.m. hour, Rory was not dancing for a crowd or singing for her adored fans—she was training for a fight she did not even know was coming.

The sharp, rhythmic thwacks—sounds that carried the jarring violence of a handgun discharging in a confined space—arrested his attention the moment he crossed the threshold.

Malphas, who only had an hour of sleep upon arrival, stood in the shadows of the entrance, his obsidian eyes immediately locking onto the figure at the center of the gym. He watched the woman, her frame surprisingly tall and defined by lean, powerful muscles, as she moved with a feral grace. Her long legs snapped out in high, lethal arcs, punishing the heavy bag with a ferocity that suggested she was not just training; she was attempting to murder it in a makeshift octagon.

With a subtle, authoritative lift of his hand, Malphas wordlessly commanded his four bodyguards to halt. He signaled them to remain back, ensuring they did nothing to shatter the heavy silence or draw the attention of the woman who was currently lost in her own private war. Even a footstep could disrupt the brutal rhythm of her strikes, and he wanted to observe her undisturbed—a predator watching a fellow hunter in her natural element.