The Marquise

CHAPTER 5

Mara Vega

I know he’s going to come back before I even leave my apartment.

Not because he said anything. He didn’t. The man in the corner chair last Friday didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t so much as shift his posture in a way that would signal intention.

Some people glance at a performance the way they glance at a painting in a hallway. A moment, a polite appreciation, then their eyes move on to something else.

Dominic Voss does not glance at anything.

I have watched him work for eighteen months. I know what it looks like when something captures his attention. It’s quiet. Still. Focused to the point that everything else around him fades out of relevance.

The way he watched that stage.

The way he watched me.

That wasn’t casual.

So yes. I know he might come back.

Which is why the preparation starts before I even step into the club.

Different dress. Different hair. The Marquise is always about transformation but tonight I take it further. The color of the costume shifts the line of my shoulders. My hair falls differently across one eye instead of swept back cleanly. Even my makeup changes the angles of my face. Cheekbones softened, lips darker.

No repetition.

No pattern he can follow.

By the time I reach Club Velour, the air inside the dressing room is already warm with hairspray and perfume and the faint metallic scent of stage lights heating up somewhere beyond the curtain.

Lianna is sitting on the edge of the counter when I walk in, swinging one foot lazily.

“You look like trouble tonight.”

I glance at her in the mirror while I slide a pin into my hair.

“That’s usually the point.”

She grins.

“Fair.”

The music from the main room pulses faintly through the walls, a low vibration that settles somewhere in my ribs. Familiar. Comforting, in a strange way.

This place is the opposite of the office. Loud where the office is quiet. Soft around the edges where everything there is sharp and structured.

Two different lives.

Two different versions of me.

For a moment I consider the possibility that he won’t be here tonight after all.

Then I stop myself.

Thinking about whether he will or won’t show up is the wrong problem.

The real problem is what happens if he does.

When the call comes for my set, I stand slowly from the chair and smooth my hands down the sides of the costume.

The walk from the dressing room to the stage is narrow, a dim corridor that opens suddenly into light and music and the soft murmur of the crowd.

I pause just before the curtain.

One breath.

Then I step through.

The stage lights bloom across the room, warm and bright enough that the crowd beyond them blurs into movement and shadow.

For the first few seconds I don’t look at the audience at all.

That part comes later.

The music begins.

Movement settles into my body like it always does. My arms find the pole with a slow, practiced grace, letting it guide the rhythm of my shoulders, the lift of my hips.

Only then do I start my scan.

Club.

Bar.

Booths along the back wall.

My gaze moves the way it always does, steady and unhurried.

And then—

Corner table.

Far right.

The same seat.

He’s there.

Dominic Voss sits exactly where he did last week, one elbow resting lightly against the arm of the chair, his posture relaxed in the way men with too much control sometimes manage to look relaxed.

His suit is dark again tonight.

Expensive.

His attention lands on the stage with the same focused stillness I remember.

For half a second my body forgets the next movement.

Then the rhythm pulls me back.

I turn away.

Not dramatically. Not abruptly.

Just a small shift of angle, the next motion carrying my gaze across the center of the room instead of back toward the corner.

That is the strategy tonight.

I do not look at him.

Not once.

At least not directly.

Which means I am aware of him constantly.

Peripheral vision is a strange thing. You can feel someone in the edge of it even without seeing them clearly. The weight of attention has a direction.

All through the set I know exactly where he is.

Still in that chair.

Still watching.

Halfway through, the music slows. Longer lines, wider arcs, movements that stretch against the pulse of the bass. I let the pole guide me, subtle twists and spins that feel natural under the crimson light, the kind that could be called elegant or sensual, depending on who is watching.

There are dozens of people in this room.

But one pair of eyes feels heavier than the rest.

I refuse to give him anything he can follow.

Different angles.

Different pacing.

Nothing repeated from last week.

Still.

Once, just once, I feel the edge of his gaze catch mine when I spin near the center of the stage.

Not a full meeting of eyes.

Just the briefest brush of awareness before I turn away again.

The set ends too quickly.

It always does when I’m paying this much attention to the room.

The final note of the music fades into applause, the sound rising around me like a wave.

I bow slightly, the way I always do.

Then I step back into the shadow of the curtain.

The quiet backstage feels almost shocking after the heat of the lights.

For a moment I just stand there, breathing. Heart beating a little faster than usual.

Not panic.

Something else.

Lianna appears a minute later, leaning against the doorway of the dressing room.

“Well?”

I reach for a towel and press it lightly against the back of my neck.

“Well what?”

Her eyes narrow slightly.

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The pretending-you’re-not-thinking-about-something thing.”

I laugh under my breath.

She crosses the room and perches on the counter.

“So,” she says casually. “What’s going on in that brain of yours tonight?”

I hesitate.

Then I say it.

“There was someone in the crowd I recognized.”

Her eyebrows lift.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“From where?”

I take a second longer than necessary to fold the towel neatly on the counter.

“Work.”

The silence that follows stretches.

Lianna studies my face in the mirror.

“How bad?” she asks finally.

I meet her eyes.

For a moment I consider explaining.

Telling her that the man sitting in the corner tonight is Dominic Voss. That he has spent the last week walking past my desk every morning without realizing the woman on that stage works eight feet from his office.

Instead I pick up my bag.

“I should go.”

“Mara.”

I pause at the door.

She tilts her head slightly.

“How bad?” she repeats.

I hold her gaze for a second.

Then I shrug lightly.

“Good night, Lianna.”

The air outside the club is cool against my skin.

I walk to my car slowly, the sound of music still humming faintly behind me through the walls of the building.

He came back.

I knew he might.

What I don’t know yet is whether that’s a problem.

Or the beginning of one.

I start the car and pull into the quiet street, the city lights sliding across the windshield as I drive.

Lianna’s question lingers somewhere in the back of my mind.

How bad?

I drive all the way home without answering it.