HER SECRET,HIS BETRAYAL

CHAPTER 7

ZANE:

I sit in the private room like I belong here, shoulders relaxed, legs stretched out, hands loosely steepled. The lighting is low, warm, amber, flickering across the dark leather and polished table. The room is quiet except for the faint pulse of music bleeding through the walls. I’m not here for the dance. I’m simply waiting.The door clicks open. She steps in. She pauses mid-step when she sees me. Shock flashes across her face first. Then irritation. Then that you have got to be kidding me look I remember too well. Gone are the stage lights and glitter. Now it’s shadows and silk, a darker outfit, looser, more intimate. It skims along her curves like a whisper, her hair falling over one shoulder, highlighting the angles of her collarbone. She regains herself instantly, letting her hips sway like nothing fazes her.

“Well,” she says, closing the door behind her with one heel, voice sharp and steady, “look at you. Didn’t expect Mr. Quiet Table-in-the-Corner to show up here of all places.” I smirk. “Didn’t expect you to remember me.” Gabriella scoffs, lifting her chin. “Relax. I remember anyone who tips well. Don’t get sentimental.” “That’s not why you remember me,” I say calmly. Her eyes narrow, not offended, just… curious. Maybe a little annoyed. “Well,” she says lightly, walking further into the room with effortless confidence, “whatever the reason, you’re here now. You want the dance you paid for? Or should we sit here and exchange creepy staring contests?” I don’t answer immediately.

Because as she steps forward into the warm halo of light, I see it. A bruise. Faint under makeup near her cheekbone. Another just below her collarbone where the fabric dips. My jaw tightens. Amusement drains instantly from my face. She notices the shift, subtly turning her head like she’s adjusting her hair, really, she’s trying to hide it. I stand. One slow step. Then another. Her breath catches, barely, but her expression stays sharp. “Problem?” she asks.

I raise a hand, not grabbing her, not forcing, just brushing the side of her jaw with my thumb. Enough for her to feel the warmth of my skin. Her lips part, reflex, not intention. “Who did this to you?” I ask quietly. She tenses instantly, spine rigid. “It’s nothing.” “Gabriella.” My voice stays calm, controlled, dangerous without raising it. “This isn’t the first time. You’ve been hiding bruises.” She forces a light scoff, eyes flicking away. “I fell.” “You fell two different days in a row?” “It happens,” she snaps, lifting her chin to meet my eyes again. “And it’s none of your business.” I study her for a beat. Then another. Not with pity. Not with anger. With certainty. “That lie didn’t work the first time,” I say, stepping back just enough to look at her fully.

“And if I see bruises again, Gabriella…” I exhale slowly, letting my words drop heavier than I intend, “…you’re not going to be able to lie to me a second time.” She swallows, jaw clenching, masking the flicker of fear or embarrassment with sharp irritation. “You’re awfully confident for someone who barely knows me,” she says. I tilt my head. “I know enough.” “That right?” she fires back. “Because from where I’m standing, you walked in here, paid for a private dance, then suddenly decided you’re the Patron Saint of Fixing Strippers’ Problems.”

My lip twitches. Not offended, amused. "You don’t need fixing,” I say plainly. “But someone is hurting you. And that’s a problem.” “For you?” she challenges. “Yes.” Just one word. Firm. Without hesitation. It throws her off-balance for half a second, but she holds her ground. “Why?” she presses. “Because…” I step closer, letting my presence fill the space around her, tightening the air. “You don’t belong in this room hiding bruises.” She snorts softly. “You don’t know what I belong in.” “I know you deserve better than someone putting their hands on you.” Her eyes flicker, annoyance, disbelief, something almost vulnerable beneath it. “News flash,” she mutters, “my life isn’t your responsibility.” “No,” I agree. “But your safety might be.”

She opens her mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to curse, but I turn away before she can. I walk to the table, pull out my wallet, and set down a thick, crisp stack of bills. A $1000 tip. She blinks. “What the hell is that for?” “For the lie,” I say quietly. She huffs out a humorless laugh. “You are very dramatic, you know.” “And you’re very bad at pretending you’re okay,” I reply. Her jaw flexes. She doesn’t deny it. That’s as close to honesty as she’ll give me. I head toward the door, hand on the frame, but pause. Turn slightly, just enough for my profile to cut through the shadows.

“And Gabriella…” She lifts her chin again, defiant. “What?” “The next time I see bruises on you…” My voice deepens, steady as stone. “…it won’t end well for whoever put them there.” She opens her mouth. A comeback. A retort. Something sharp. Nothing comes out. I didn’t threaten her. I didn’t ask for anything. I just stated a fact. And somehow, that makes it worse. I don’t wait for her reaction. I step out, closing the door behind me with a soft click. The room goes quiet.

She stands there, breathing hard, staring at the thousand dollars like it’s a problem she doesn’t know how to solve. Her fingers twitch at her side. “He’s insane,” she mutters under her breath. But she can’t shake the truth buzzing under her skin: I wasn’t wrong.