Chapter 14: Sera's POV
"Oh my god, Sera. I think I’m having a religious experience."
Mia leaned back against her vanity, her eyes closed in blissful surrender as she chewed a piece of the Kouign-Amann. "The crunch... the pumpkin... I’m going to need you to marry this man just so I can have these at the wedding. Seriously, I'll be the maid of honor just for the catering."
I let out a bitter, jagged laugh, watching her. "He didn't make them, Mia. I did. He just provided the industrial kitchen and the professional-grade fridge. Even in that biohazard of a frat house, his kitchen is like a laboratory. And the eyes. Those stupid, ice-blue eyes that wouldn't stop watching me roll the dough like he was trying to memorize the movement of my hands."
I shoved a piece of the pastry into my mouth, the sugar crystalline and perfect, but it tasted like a betrayal. "It was... domestic. Too domestic. We sat there for three hours just eating and talking. He invited me to the Homecoming game on Saturday. He wants me to sit in his family seats. When I told him I didn’t like getting trampled by his mega fans, he acted all 'wounded' that I was saying I'm not a mega-fan by extension. He even had the nerve to claim he plays better when he can see me in the stands."
"He sounds like a dream," Mia muffled through another bite.
"No, he sounds like a nightmare," I snapped. "Because while we were sitting there in all that 'domestic bliss,' he told me he was coming here tonight to find Sugar. He wants to 'get to know the girl behind the mask.' He looked at me—in my oversized sweaters and my glasses—and talked about Sugar like she's this sexy, mysterious creature he can't get out of his head. But me? I'm just the nerdy friend he wants to see cheering for him in the family section."
Mia finally set down her pastry, her expression shifting from sugar-high bliss to something uncomfortably perceptive. She leaned her chin on her hand, watching me through the vanity mirror.
"Sera," she said softly. "When did you start caring so much about which version of you he likes? You’ve spent three years telling me you guys were just friends. Every time he flirts with you in the library, every time he tells you he’s going to marry you, you brush him off. You always said he was just a joke."
The eyeliner pencil I’d been holding snapped in my hand. I looked at my reflection—the nerdy girl with the unruly red curls—and the truth finally clawed its way up my throat.
"Because I’ve always liked him, Mia," I confessed, the words coming out in a broken rush. "I just... I didn't let myself think about it. I couldn't. Look at him. He’s the golden boy of Portland. He’s headed for the NFL. And me? I’m going to stay here and dance until I can afford to open a bakery. There is no world where he wants to be with a dancer long-term. Right now, Sugar is just a thrill for him. That’s bad press for a career like his. It's just exciting right now, but it's not real."
Mia sighed, reaching out to squeeze my hand. "Sera, honey... you are the same person. He’s obsessed with both of you, he’s just too thick to realize they have the same DNA."
"He doesn't want the same person," I whispered. "He wants the fantasy. He doesn't want the girl who bakes him pastries and sips coffee in the library with him."
I looked at the clock. "I need to start getting dressed."
"Right," Mia said, her voice turning practical as she stood up. “What are we thinking tonight? Something sexy? Something fun? Something badass?”
I grabbed the wig I wore last night, the pink wig that seemed to ensnare Bash’s attention so wholly. “Deffinetly not this,” I snapped,walking over to chuck it in the trash."Don't you dare!" Mia lunged, snatching the synthetic hair out of my hand. "Sera, I know you're in a spiral, but these are expensive. You are mad, you are not rich. Put the wig back on the stand. You’ll regret it when you’ve calmed down."
I huffed, but I let her take it. My eyes scanned my massive collection of hair and accessories until they landed on a tinsel wig in a blinding, highlighter green. It was loud, it was jagged, and it caught every stray bit of light in the room like shattered glass.
Mia raised an eyebrow. "Going for the tinsel tonight? It’s not exactly your usual vibe. Didn’t you get that for St. Patrick's day last year?"
"Well, if we're doing noisy, let's do it right," Mia said, heading for the bins.
We spent the next half hour making me as unattractive to Sebastian Montgomery as possible. We settled on a pair of high-waisted spandex shorts in electric lime and a mesh top that practically hummed with neon intensity. I painted my lips neon green and used neon pink and yellow eyeshadow around my eyes. I traded the stilettos he probably thought about wrapping around his waist for ass kicking white combat boots. I felt in control, but I also knew that if I walked under a blacklight right now, I’d probably cause blindness. Good thing the club didn’t have any.
I was in the wings getting ready to walk out on the stage, a walking highlighter of lime-green, pink, and yellow, when I decided to peek through the curtain to see if I could find that asshole, Bash Montgomery. I checked the bar first where I’d seen him with Miller and the other football players, but he wasn’t there. I thought maybe he’d be sitting in the front row trying to get Sugar’s attention, but nope. I scanned the whole room and he was nowhere to be found. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
Why did he change his mind?
Was he running late?
Did something happen?
Regardless I had a job to do, and even if I’d dressed this way to turn Bash off, I still had regulars who were here to see me perform. I couldn’t let him affect me any more than he already had.
The music swelled—a heavy, distorted bassline that felt like it was vibrating the tinsel of my wig against my neck. I stepped out onto the stage, the lime-green spandex practically glowing under the house lights. I moved through the routine with a mechanical precision, my body performing the familiar curves and drops while my mind was miles away, still stuck in a frat house kitchen with a boy who had ice-blue eyes.
I kept scanning. Every time I spun, every time I arched my back, my eyes flickered toward the entrance. I checked the shadows by the bar. I checked the high-top tables. Nothing.
But as the set reached its peak, a strange prickling sensation crawled up my spine. It was that specific, heavy weight of being watched—not by a crowd, but by a person. It felt like the way Bash looked at me when I was covered in sitting across from him in the library, intense and unwavering. My heart hammered against my ribs, and for a split second, I faltered in my step, certain I’d find him leaning against a pillar in the back.
But the shadows remained empty. The booth remained cold. He wasn't there. I was dancing for a ghost.
By the time the final note faded, the adrenaline had soured into a deep, throbbing exhaustion. I didn't wait for the applause. I snatched my silk robe from the wings and bolted toward the back hallway, my combat boots clattering loudly on the floor.
"Quite the neon dream tonight, Sugar."
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Dante was leaning against the brickwork near the dressing room hallway, but still in the main room. His dark suit looked ink-black against my blindingly bright outfit. He straightened up, his eyes traveling slowly—far too slowly—over the lime-green mesh and the matching tinsel.
"I have to say, I’m a fan of the new direction," he murmured, his voice oily and low. He stepped closer, trapping me between his frame and the wall. "Very... luminous. It got me thinking. We could have a lot of fun under some blacklights, you and I. I’d love to see exactly how much of you glows in the dark once we get started."
A wave of literal nausea rolled over me. I knew exactly what he was implying, and the thought of his hands on my skin made the neon makeup on my face feel like it was suffocating me.
"I’m off the clock, Dante," I said, my voice sharp and brittle as I ducked under his arm. "And I don't do blacklights. Or you."
"A shame," he called after me, his tone unbothered. "When you change your mind, I’ll be waiting.”
I didn't answer, because there would never be a when, unless it was when pigs fly. I slammed the dressing room door behind me, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Mia started to say something, her hand frozen over a makeup sponge, but I didn't give her the chance.
"Don't," I choked out, already tearing at the lime-green mesh. "He didn't show. Dante is a pig. I’m going home."
I spent twenty minutes scrubbing at my skin until it was raw and red, trying to wash away the "noise," the “warpaint”, and the lingering feeling of Dante’s gaze. I left the tinsel wig sitting on the vanity like a dead neon bird.
The bus ride home was quiet, the Sunday night streets of Portland blurred by the rain. I sat with my forehead against the cold glass, clutching my bag to my chest. I had dressed to turn him off, but the fact that he hadn't even given me the chance to be rejected felt a thousand times worse.
I was the nerdy friend. I was the secret dancer. And tonight, I was just a girl sitting alone on a bus, smelling like cheap club perfume and hairspray, wondering why the boy who wanted to see her in the family section couldn't be bothered to show up for the show he claimed to want.