Episode Four
989 Words
ELENA'S POV
The minute I got back inside my apartment and shut the door behind me, I was face-planted onto the couch, heels and all. My body hurt. My pride hurt. And in the recesses of my brain, there was this tiny voice that just kept singing repeatedly. You spilled coffee on a walking fortune today, Elena. You're screwed.
But at that exact moment? I just didn't care.
Sleep descended upon me before I even had the opportunity to decide if I was going to shower or not. The last thing I remembered as I drifted off to sleep was a pair of steel green eyes looking at me as if I'd committed something worse than homicide.
Maybe I had.
Because of what happened in that elevator, whatever it was, I knew it in my bones.
Three hours later I was rudely awoken by the smell of stale lavender-scented candles and my neighbor's baby's wails from the paper walls. I complained as I pushed myself away from the couch and hauled myself to the bathroom. A quick shower later, and I was on my feet once more, tugging on my jeans and a hoodie that didn't have the words Hello Kitty printed on it.
My work shifts were over, but I still had one more destination.
Mom.
It wasn't far, so I went by the grocery store anyway. I knew she'd complain she wasn't hungry, swearing the hospital food was "more than enough", but I also knew she'd been wanting strawberries and pears and slivers of mango with chili powder.
I collected all her favorites, down to a bottle of ginger tea she used to repair everything from heartache to migraine, and set off for the clinic.
Room 309 smelled of antiseptic and stale hope turned bad. But also of her, like jasmine oil, fresh laundry detergent, and soft strength.
"Mama," I wheezed, sliding in.
She turned, just fractionally slower this week. Her smile still lit the room anyway.
"Elena, my sky." Her voice was husky, soft. "I thought you were at work today?"
"I was. "It was… crazy," I growled, setting the fruit bag on the nightstand. "But I needed to see you."
Her still-thin, still-warm hand scoured for mine. "Tell me everything."
And I did. Some of it, at least.
I explained to her about the crazy day at the reception, how I'd nearly gotten myself sacked, how I'd humiliated myself over some guy in a suit costing ten thousand bucks. I omitted telling her I'd dragged him into a bathroom and stripped him like a crazed raccoon. She didn't need that worry.
She laughed. Not one of those gutsy, lung-busting laughs her lungs weren't yet capable of but one to make my chest knot in love.
"You're always dramatic," she said to me.
"I prefer memorable," I replied, sharing a bite of mango with her.
But during the time I was sitting there, there was something that crawled up my back.
A tingle. A shift in the air.
As if I were being watched.
I glanced over in the hall a couple of times, waiting for a nurse, a cleaning staff member, someone to materialize. But no one materialized. Just the gentle buzz of hospital lights and the occasional beep of machinery.
"Is everything okay?" Mom asked, her eyebrows scrunching up.
"Yeah," I fibbed, attempting to smile.
I had stepped out of the hospital a few minutes before dusk, shoved my hands into the pockets of the hood, and pulled the hood down over my face. The feeling did not dissipate. Instead, it grew stronger. As if eyes unseen were boring into the base of my neck.
But whenever I turned, nothing.
I took the long way to the club, down the side roads, and back twice, just in case. I'd done it before. I'd learned how to spot a tail. And yet, even though I didn't see anyone, my gut was telling me something was off.
Whatever, I arrived at the Velvet Room ten minutes early.
Professionalism or survival reflex. I couldn't tell which.
Backstage stank with hairspray and fear. Girls floated by in silk dresses and six-inch heels, glitter etched on collarbones and lashes like armor. I nodded hello to some of them, said nothing, and settled into my rhythm.
Change. Hair. Makeup. Deep breaths.
Regular Elena did not exist here.
She was fearless. She was fierce. She was invincible.
I finished curling my hair, painted on my signature red lipstick, and adjusted my black corset so it was wrapped around my body the way it was meant to be.
I was just heading out onto the stage when manager Marcus appeared alongside me. He rapped on the dressing room door twice and stuck his head in as if he didn't want to get caught by a wayward stiletto.
"Elena."
"Yeah?" I turned, tucking in the last piece of my hair.
"Change of plans," he said, grinning.
"Tell me I'm not being scratched from the lineup again"
"No, no," he said quickly. Just the opposite. You've got a VIP client."
I blinked. "A what?"
He stepped in, closing the door behind him. "Private session. Real money. Big tip. Monster request. He asked for you."
My stomach dropped.
I'd had VIPS from rich jerks, bored hedge fund managers, the occasional celebrity but there was something about this that felt. Different.
"Did he ask for me by name?" I asked.
Marcus paused, then glanced at me. "Not exactly."
"So what did he choose me for?"
He smiled. "Asked for the one who dances in red. Said you'd know what that means."
I looked at him. Dozens of possibilities tumbled in my head, but none seemed to make sense.
Steel-green eyes. Billion-dollar suit. And a pink hoodie.
No way.
"Room Nine," Marcus said. Ten minutes. Knock twice before you go in. And, Elena?"
I looked up.
"He paid triple what we normally charge. Don't mess with him".
- Writer
