Chapter 2: The Apology Trap
The drive to Sunnyside took forty minutes, and Richard spent all of them rehearsing what he'd say. Apologies weren't his strong suit. He was the guy who doubled down, who dug his heels in and rode the argument to its bitter end. But something about that message—Sweet dreams. You'll need it.—had burrowed under his skin like a splinter he couldn't dig out.
He found the venue easily enough. A converted warehouse on the edge of town, the exterior all corrugated steel and faded graffiti. A hand-painted sign above the door read "The Velvet Room" in looping script that looked like it had been done by someone with a lot of time and a little too much wine.
The show was already in progress when he arrived. He could hear the murmur of the crowd through the walls, the occasional burst of laughter. Richard paid the cover charge and slipped inside, pressing himself against the back wall where the light barely reached.
Vivienne was on stage.
She was wearing a deep violet dress tonight, the fabric catching the low amber lights like water. Her hair was pinned up, exposing the graceful curve of her neck, and she moved with the same fluid confidence he remembered. A volunteer sat in a chair beside her, a middle-aged man with a stunned expression, his arms hanging limp at his sides.
"—and when I snap my fingers," Vivienne said, her voice carrying through the room with impossible clarity, "you'll forget your own name. You'll forget where you are. You'll feel nothing but warmth, spreading from your chest to your fingertips, a deep and wonderful calm."
She snapped. The man's head lolled forward. The crowd applauded.
Richard watched, transfixed. He'd seen her do this before, but now—knowing what he knew, feeling the ghost of her voice still whispering in the back of his mind—it was different. He could see the mechanics of it now. The way her words wrapped around the volunteer's consciousness, patient and insistent. The way her eyes never left him, even as she addressed the crowd.
She was a predator, and everyone in this room was prey.
He stayed through the rest of the show, arms crossed, jaw tight. He watched her make a woman believe she was a chicken. Watched her convince a burly construction worker that the stage was a swimming pool. Watched her maintain that same serene smile throughout, the smile of someone who had absolute control over everything in her orbit.
When the show ended and the crowd began to disperse, Richard made his move.
He found the backstage door without much difficulty—a plain metal door at the end of a narrow hallway, marked only by a small star sticker that had seen better days. He pushed it open and stepped into a world of stark contrast: the dim, smoky atmosphere of the venue replaced by harsh fluorescent lights and the scent of cheap perfume and dust.
Voices drifted from a room at the end of the hall. He followed them, his heart hammering against his ribs in a rhythm that felt all too familiar.
"—wonderful tonight, really wonderful. The way you handled that heckler—"
"I always handle my hecklers."
Richard stopped in the doorway. Vivienne was seated at a vanity table, facing the mirror, her reflection meeting his with an expression of mild surprise that didn't quite reach her eyes. A man in a wrinkled suit stood beside her, clutching a clipboard and looking like he'd just been dismissed.
"That's all for tonight, Gerald."
The man—Gerald—glanced at Richard, then back at Vivienne. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then thought better of it and scurried past Richard into the hall.
The door clicked shut.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Vivienne turned back to her mirror, reaching up to unpin her hair. It fell in a dark cascade around her shoulders, and Richard felt something in his chest tighten.
"You're here," she said, not looking at him. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
"You knew I'd come?"
"I knew you'd try to fight it." She set the pin down, meeting his gaze in the reflection. "That's what I'm counting on."
Richard stepped into the room, the door swinging shut behind him. The space was cluttered—costume racks huddled in the corner, a trunk overflowing with props, flyers for past shows tacked to the walls. The mirror was cracked, a single hairline fracture running from the top left corner to the center, distorting her reflection just slightly.
"I came to apologize," he said, the words tasting strange on his tongue. "For what I said. At the bar. It was—it was out of line."
Vivienne turned, finally looking at him fully. Her eyes were the same impossible green he remembered, and up close, they were even more disarming. Warm and cold at once, like a clearing lake that had never seen sunlight.
"Was it?" She tilted her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "You spoke your mind. That's not a crime, Richard. It's just—" she paused, savoring the word, "—informative."
"Informative?"
"It told me exactly what kind of man you are." She stood, crossing to a small table where a teapot sat, steam curling from its spout. "Someone who lashes out when he feels threatened. Someone who needs to tear others down to feel tall." She poured herself a cup, not offering him one. "Someone who's terrified of being ordinary."
Richard's jaw tightened. "You don't know me."
"I know you better than you think." She took a sip of her tea, watching him over the rim. "I know you're in a job you hate, working for clients who don't appreciate you. I know you drink to escape and escape to avoid and avoid so you never have to face what's really going on inside your head." Her eyes never left his. "I know you've never felt good enough. Never felt man enough. And I know that every time you look in the mirror, you see someone who's pretending."
The words hit him like physical blows. He took a step back, his hand reaching for the door handle. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come."
"Don't go." Her voice shifted, softening into something almost gentle. "I'm not trying to hurt you, Richard. I'm trying to help you."
"Help me?" He laughed, but it was hollow, brittle. "You barely know me. You sent me that message. You've been—been messing with my head—"
"Have I?" She set her cup down, taking a step toward him. "What have I actually done, Richard? Send you one text? Say a few words in a crowded bar? You're the one who's been losing sleep. You're the one who's been obsessing." She took another step, closing the distance between them. "I didn't make you come here tonight. You made that choice yourself."
He wanted to argue. Wanted to shout that she was twisting everything, that she was manipulating him, that she was the reason he couldn't stop thinking about her. But the words wouldn't come. They were stuck somewhere in his throat, tangled in the warmth spreading through his chest.
"Please," she said, gesturing to a worn velvet armchair in the corner of the room. "Sit. Let's clear the air. I promise I'm not going to hurt you."
Richard hesitated. Everything in him screamed at him to leave. To run. To get as far away from this woman and her emerald eyes and her voice that crawled into his ears like honey.
But his feet moved anyway, carrying him to the armchair. He sat, sinking into the cushion, the velvet soft against his palms.
Vivienne smiled, settling into a matching chair across from him. She gripped his gaze, leaning forward, her voice dropping to that low, melodic cadence he remembered from the bar.
"See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"
Richard swallowed. "I'm. Look, I'm just gonna say what I came to say and go. I'm sorry about the comment. It was stupid. I was drunk. It won't happen again."
"No, it won't." She said it with such certainty that it sent a chill down his spine. "But that's not why you're here, is it?"
"Isn't it?"
"No." She shook her head slowly. "You're here because you felt it. That spark. That pull. You've been thinking about me all week, haven't you?"
"I've been thinking about what you did to me."
"Is there a difference?" She smiled, but it was softer now. Almost kind. "You want answers. You want to understand what happened that night. You want to understand why I'm still in your head, even when you're not looking at my face or hearing my voice."
Richard opened his mouth to deny it, but nothing came out.
"That's okay." Vivienne's voice was a balm, smoothing over the rough edges of his anxiety. "It's natural to be curious. It's natural to want to understand. You're a smart man, Richard. You've always relied on your mind to make sense of the world. But what if I told you that your mind is the one thing holding you back?"
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means you think too much." She said it simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You analyze, you rationalize, you second-guess. You're so busy trying to control everything that you've forgotten how to let go. How to simply feel." She reached out, taking his hand in hers. Her skin was cool, smooth, and something in him settled at the contact. "That night, in the bar, you felt something, didn't you? When I spoke to you. When I told you to rest. You felt a weight lift off your shoulders. A peace you haven't felt in years."
Richard's eyelids were growing heavy. He blinked, trying to focus on her face, but the edges seemed to shimmer. "I—I don't remember—"
"You remember enough." She squeezed his hand, and he felt a wave of warmth roll through him. "You remember how good it felt to stop fighting. To stop struggling. To simply let someone else take the wheel."
"I can't." His voice sounded different. Slower, softer. "I can't let go. I can't—won't—"
"Shhh." She lifted a hand, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a shock through his system, and his resistance crumbled a little more. "You don't have to let go all at once. We can take this slowly. Just the two of us. In this room. In this moment."
Richard's head lolled forward, his chin nearly touching his chest. He tried to fight it—the weariness, the drowsiness, the way her voice seemed to be pulling him somewhere soft and dark and safe. He concentrated on the floor, on a crack in the tile, on a scrap of something stuck to the wall.
"I shouldn't be here," he mumbled. "I should go."
"You should stay." Her voice was in his ear now, though he wasn't sure when she'd moved closer. "You've been running from this for so long, Richard. From everything you could become. Everything you're afraid to be." Her fingers traced a circle on the back of his hand, and he felt his muscles melt like butter in the sun. "Let me show you what it's like to fly."
"No." The word came out as a whisper, cracked and unsteady. "Please. I don't—"
But Vivienne was already continuing, her voice wrapping around him like silk. "You're so tired, Richard. So very, very tired. You've been carrying this weight for so long that you've forgotten what it feels like to be light." Her breath kissed his cheek. "But it's okay. I'm here now. I'll carry it for you. All you have to do is close your eyes and let go."
His eyes were closing. He couldn't stop them. The world was growing dark, the edges of his vision dissolving into a warm, velvety black.
"Listen to my voice," she said. "That's all you have to do. Nothing else. Just my voice, and the sound of your breathing, and the peace that comes from knowing you're exactly where you're supposed to be."
Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, a voice screamed. A voice that sounded like him, but distant now, desperate.
Fight it. Fight it. Don't let her—
"Can you hear me, Richard?"
"...yes."
"Good." He felt her smile even though he couldn't see it. "Now, I'm going to plant a seed. A small, simple suggestion. And when you wake up, you're going to feel it growing inside you, pushing toward the surface. Do you understand?"
"Understand..."
"Wonderful." Her voice was honey and silk and something darker underneath. "When you wake up, you'll feel a strong pull toward the color pink. You'll find it beautiful. Comforting. You'll want to surround yourself with it—in your clothes, in your life, in the way you see yourself. And whenever you hear the sound of a snap—" she snapped her fingers, and he felt the sound ripple through his mind, "—you'll feel a warmth spread through your chest, and a smile will bloom on your lips. You'll feel feminine. Soft. Pretty. Like the prettiest girl in the room."
A protest bubbled up in his throat—No, no, no—but it came out as nothing but a soft sigh.
"You'll also feel a deep desire to be admired. To be looked at. To feel beautiful in the way that only a woman can feel beautiful. But you won't understand why. You'll just know that it feels right. So very right. And the thought of fighting it will feel silly. Unnecessary."
Richard's body was slack, his head resting against the back of the chair, mouth slightly parted. He looked peaceful. Vacant. Beautiful in a way he'd never allowed himself to be.
Vivienne stood, looking down at him with a smile of pure satisfaction. She reached out, tracing a finger along his jawline, and he stirred slightly at her touch.
Those emerald eyes gleamed with something ancient and knowing. "You'll do wonderfully, sweetheart. I have so many plans for you. We just don't have all night."
She snapped her fingers.
Richard's eyes flew open. He gasped, sitting upright, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair. The room swam back into focus—the cluttered vanity, the costume racks, Vivienne's serene smile as she sat across from him, one leg crossed over the other.
"What—" He blinked, shaking his head. "What happened?"
"You looked tired," she said smoothly. "I thought you could use a minute."
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to piece together the last few minutes. He remembered... he'd been talking. Apologizing. And then... nothing. The same blank space as before.
"I must have dozed off," he muttered, pulling himself to his feet. "I should go."
"Of course." Vivienne stood, offering him a small smile. "I hope you feel better, Richard. And remember—" she tilted her head, those green eyes gleaming, "—my door is always open."
He nodded, not trusting his voice, and made his way to the door. His feet felt heavy, his thoughts sluggish, but he managed to stumble out into the hallway and back toward the street.
He didn't notice the way he glanced at a pink flyer on the wall, his eyes lingering a little longer than they should have. Didn't notice the ghost of a smile that played on his lips when he heard the snap of a mousetrap in the alley behind the club.
He walked to his car, got in, and sat there for a long moment, staring at nothing. Something was different. Something had shifted, deep in the recesses of his mind.
And for the first time in his life, Richard Calloway didn't feel like fighting it.
He felt pretty.
He felt pretty.
The thought surfaced from somewhere deep in his mind, unbidden and unwelcome, and Richard blinked against it like a man waking from a dream. He sat in his car, hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to recall the drive home. The road had passed beneath him in a blur of streetlights and darkness, and now he was parked, engine idling, in the familiar lot outside his apartment.
You don't feel pretty, he told himself firmly. You feel tired. You feel confused. You feel like you need a shower and about twelve hours of sleep.
But the thought lingered, sticky as honey, refusing to be shaken. He caught his reflection in the rearview mirror as he turned—messy brown hair, hazel eyes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw—and something in his chest fluttered. A warmth, faint but persistent, blooming behind his sternum.
The pink flyer. He remembered it now, pinned to the wall near Vivienne's dressing room door. It had been advertising some kind of clothing sale, maybe, or a boutique opening. He hadn't given it a second thought at the time.
But now, sitting alone in the dark, he found himself thinking about that shade of pink. Soft. Delicate. Pretty.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, shattering the haze. Richard fumbled for it, squinting at the screen through a fog he couldn't quite clear.
Mark: "u alive? haven't heard from u in 3 days. getting worried man"
He'd been avoiding his friends. Avoiding everyone. The past few days had passed in a blur of sick days and sleepless nights, his thoughts drifting like smoke, always circling back to the same pair of emerald eyes.
He typed back: "yeah im fine. just been busy with work."
The lie tasted flat, but he sent it anyway.
Richard made his way up to his apartment, the stairs creaking beneath his boots. Beans was waiting at the door, glaring at him with her usual disdain, and he scooped her up without thinking, burying his face in her fur.
"I'm losing my mind, Beans," he muttered. "I think I'm actually losing my mind."
The cat purred, unbothered.
He spent the rest of the night on the couch, flipping through channels he wasn't watching. His laptop sat open beside him, a design project half-finished, the cursor blinking mockingly at the corner of the screen. He'd been assigned a branding package for a new athletic wear company—all sharp angles and bold typography, the kind of work he usually thrived on.
But every time he tried to focus on the shapes and colors, his eyes kept drifting to the color palette. The client wanted something aggressive. Powerful. Masculine.
He found himself wondering how the logo would look in rose gold.
He slammed the laptop shut with more force than necessary, startling Beans off the armrest. She hissed at him from across the room, tail flicking with indignation.
"Sorry," he muttered, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. "Sorry. I don't know—" He stopped, realizing he was talking to a cat. "I need to get a grip."
Sleep came in fragments. He dreamed of pink silk, of velvet chairs, of a voice that wrapped around him like a warm blanket. He dreamed of a woman with emerald eyes, her fingers trailing along his jaw, her smile a promise and a threat.
He dreamed of a snap.
Morning came too soon, pale winter light filtering through his blinds. Richard showered, dressed, and stared at his wardrobe for a long moment, a strange dissatisfaction curling in his gut. Everything looked wrong. Too dark, too boxy, too severe. He riffled through his closet, looking for—what? He didn't know. Something softer, maybe. Something that fit him better.
He settled on an old gray sweater and a pair of jeans, pulling them on with a sense of wrongness he couldn't articulate.
His phone buzzed again as he was heading out the door. This time, it wasn't Mark.
Unknown number: "Good morning, Richard. I hope you slept well. I know I did. Have a beautiful day. - V"
Richard stared at the message, his heart hammering against his ribs. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, aching to reply, to ask her what she'd done to him, to demand she leave him alone.
Instead, he typed: "you too"
He hit send before he could stop himself, then stood frozen in his hallway, horrified.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He shoved the phone in his pocket and walked to work, trying to focus on the buildings and streets around him. The morning was brisk, the sidewalks dusted with frost, and he pulled his sweater tighter around his shoulders. Through the window of a boutique he passed, he caught a glimpse of a mannequin wearing a flowing pink sundress, and something in his chest ached.
Pretty, his mind whispered. So pretty.
He quickened his pace, eyes fixed dead ahead.
The office was its usual buzz of controlled chaos. Sam from accounts was arguing with the mailroom guy about a lost package. Jenny was microwaving fish in the breakroom, filling the air with a smell that should have been illegal. Richard's cubicle was exactly as he'd left it—pens scattered, sticky notes plastered to his monitor, a half-empty mug of cold coffee growing something that might have been alive.
He sat down, opened his laptop, and tried to work.
An hour later, he was staring at a blank canvas, his design software open to an empty document. His client, a protein powder company with an aggressive marketing strategy, was expecting concepts by Friday. Richard had nothing. He'd been sitting there for sixty minutes, the cursor blinking, his mind filled with pastel colors and flowing fabric.
"Hey, Calloway." Dave from the cubicle next to him leaned over the partition, a grin on his face. "You look like shit. Rough weekend?"
"You could say that."
"Tell me about it. My wife made me go to her cousin's baby shower, and I spent four hours playing dodge-the-toddler. Survived, but barely." He laughed, clapping Richard on the shoulder. "Anyway, Maya said you were supposed to send over the revised mockups this morning. She's been waiting since eight."
Richard had completely forgotten. He checked his email, finding three progressively more annoyed messages from his project manager, the last one timestamped five minutes ago.
"Shit. I'll get on it."
"Better hurry. Maya's got that look, you know the one." Dave mimed a knife across his throat, then wandered off.
Richard turned back to his screen, trying to summon the focus he'd always taken for granted. The protein powder branding required muscle. Intensity. A visual language that screamed power and performance. He sketched a few rough ideas, but his hand kept drifting toward curves instead of angles, softness instead of sharpness.
By midday, he'd deleted four drafts and started a fifth.
His phone buzzed again. Unknown number.
"Having a hard time focusing? Maybe you need a break. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and let your mind wander. I promise it'll feel better."
Richard's breath caught. He looked around the office, half-expecting Vivienne to be standing there, watching him. But there was only the usual hum of keyboards and muffled phone conversations.
He typed: "how do you keep doing this"
The reply came instantly. "Doing what, sweetheart? I'm just checking in on a friend. Is that so wrong?"
"We're not friends"
"We're getting there. 😉"
He shoved his phone in his drawer, face burning. His hands were shaking again, and he realized with a start that he was smiling. A small, involuntary twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The pink icon on his design software caught his eye. He'd somehow navigated to the color palette without noticing, the cursor hovering over a soft blush tone.
He pulled up his draft and started over. The project was due Friday, and for the first time in his career, Richard wasn't sure he could finish it.
That evening, he found himself walking past the Velvet Room.
He hadn't planned to come here. His feet had simply carried him, as if following a path worn deep by habit. The neon sign buzzed above the door, the same flickering glow that had first drawn his attention weeks ago. A new flyer was taped to the door, announcing Vivienne's upcoming show.
Saturday. 9 PM. "A Night of Mystery and Transformation."
"Everything alright there?"
Richard nearly jumped out of his skin. A woman was standing beside him, bundled in a heavy coat, a paper bag of groceries in her arms. She was looking at him with a curious expression, one eyebrow raised.
"Sorry," he said, stepping back from the door. "I was just—reading the flyer."
"You a fan of Vivienne's?" The woman's face lit up. "She's incredible. I've seen her show three times now. She just—" the woman searched for words, "—she really changes you, you know? Makes you feel like you can be anyone. Like the person you've been hiding isn't so scary after all."
"Is that a good thing?"
The woman tilted her head, considering. "I think it's whatever you need it to be. That's the magic of it." She smiled, then continued on her way, disappearing around a corner.
Richard stood alone in the cold, staring at the flyer. Saturday. The night air bit at his cheeks, but he couldn't seem to move. Some part of him was already planning, already calculating how he'd slip away, how he'd explain his absence to his friends.
Just to see her, he told himself. Just to understand what she's doing to me. And then I'll stop. I'll end this.
But even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie. He was caught in something, a current pulling him steadily toward a destination he couldn't see. And the scariest part wasn't the loss of control.
It was that he was beginning to enjoy it.
He turned away from the Velvet Room and walked home, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. His phone buzzed, and he didn't need to look to know who it was.
"See you Saturday, sweetheart. I can't wait to show you what you can become."
Richard's fingers were cold, but his chest burned with something that might have been excitement. If he looked closely enough, he could almost convince himself he was still fighting.
But the smile on his face told a different story.