Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
I slip out of the rehearsal runway after the final walk-through, still buzzing from the lights and the click of heels on the polished stage. The actual Showcase is soon, but today was all about timing, spacing, and making sure the new girls don’t trip over their own lingerie. I’m sweaty, my robe half-open over the practice set, hair pinned up in a messy knot. All I want is five minutes alone to breathe, touch up my lipstick, and maybe steal a sip of the sparkling water I left in my dressing room.
The hallway is quieter now—most of the models have scattered to their own spaces or back to the hotel—and I push open the door to dressing room three.
There, dead center on the vanity under the circle of bright bulbs, sits a tiny box.
Matte black wrapping. Silver ribbon in a flawless bow. No tag. No card. Just the box, small and perfect and completely wrong.
My stomach drops like I’ve missed a step on the stairs. I freeze in the doorway, one hand still on the knob. I locked this room before I left for the runway run—double-checked the latch because the break-in back home is still fresh enough to make me paranoid. Nothing was out of place when I stepped out forty minutes ago. This wasn’t here.
My skin prickles. The air feels wrong, too still, like someone just left the room and took the warmth with them.
I don’t go in. I don’t even breathe too loud. Instead I back up one step into the hallway, and glance around.
Mack’s there. He raises a brow. “You okay?”
“There’s a box,” I say, keeping my voice low even though the hall is empty. “In my dressing room. On the vanity. Wrapped like a gift. I didn’t put it there.”
The shift in him is instant. No more easy drawl. “Don’t touch it.” He reaches me fast, hand light on my arm as he eases me a step farther back from the doorway. His eyes flick past me to the vanity inside, clocking the box in one sweep. “Yeah. That’s not from wardrobe.”
He taps his earpiece. “Rhodes. Dressing room three, rehearsal wing. Suspicious item on the vanity—gift-wrapped black box. Model’s clear in the hallway. Need venue security and Cupid City PD, non-emergency but expedite. Possible connection to prior incident.”
He listens for a second, then looks back at me. “They’re on their way. Two minutes tops. You okay?”
I wrap my arms around myself under the robe. “Freaked out. But yeah.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell the faint pine of his cologne over the lingering hairspray in the air. “Good. You did exactly right—didn’t touch it and stayed out here. That’s the play.”
We wait in the hallway. The distant thump of the soundcheck bass vibrates through the walls, a reminder that the rest of the production is still humming along like nothing’s wrong. Mack stands slightly in front of me, body angled so he can see both the dressing room door and the corridor in either direction. He doesn’t crowd me, but he’s close enough that I feel the steady heat of him, like a shield.
Venue security arrives first—two guys in black polos—followed almost immediately by a pair of uniformed Cupid City officers and a detective in plain clothes. Mack gives them the quick rundown in clipped, professional sentences: my name, the prior break-in in Saint Pierce, the note from before, the timing of this event. He mentions the rehearsal specifically, how the room was secured when I left.
One of the officers pulls on gloves. Mack stays beside me while they step inside, careful not to disturb anything else. I watch them lift the box, turn it over—no wires, no bulk, no ticking. They untie the ribbon slowly, peel back the paper.
A small velvet case, deep sapphire blue.
My throat tightens.
The detective opens it with the tip of a pen.
A delicate silver necklace lies inside—thin chain, tiny crescent-moon pendant glittering with what look like real sapphires. Underneath it, a folded slip of paper.
The detective unfolds it with tweezers, scans it, then glances at me. “It’s addressed to you, Ms. Lyric. You want to hear it?”
I nod, even though every instinct screams no.
He reads in a flat, careful voice:
“For the moon who eclipses every light on that stage. Wear it tomorrow. I’ll be closer than you think. —Yours”
The hallway seems to shrink. My knees feel unsteady.
Mack’s hand finds the small of my back—firm, grounding. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps me upright while the officers bag the necklace and note as evidence, snap photos of the vanity, and promise to rush forensics.
When they’re done, they tell me the show can proceed if I feel secure enough. They’ll post extra uniforms, run background checks on credentialed attendees, keep eyes on the audience.
I manage a tight nod. “I’m not canceling. Not for him.”