Chapter 3: Sera's POV
The heavy steel door of the stage entrance clicked shut behind me, cutting off the Portland rain and replaced it with the scent of stale cigarette smoke, expensive bourbon, and the cloyingly sweet aroma of aerosol hairspray.
I leaned against the door for a second, my chest heaving, as the familiar sight of The Velvet Room washed over me. The walls were draped in deep, plush crimson fabric—a shade of red so rich and decadent it always made me think of red velvet cupcakes with a thick swirl of cream cheese frosting. It was a hunger-inducing irony, considering I was about to squeeze into a corset that made breathing a luxury, let alone eating.
"Ten minutes late, Sugar! You're lucky you aren’t the first one on stage tonight or you’d be getting a pay cut!" a gravelly voice barked from the hallway.
"Sorry, Lou! Statistics ran long!" I shouted back, already kicking off my mud-streaked boots as I sprinted toward the dressing room. He talked a big game, but Lou always took care of us girls. He acted like our father, even if he’s seen more of our skin than a father ever should. He was a fantastic security guard even if he liked to bust my chops too much, I’d been thankful for his presence on more than one occasion.
The backstage area was a chaotic hive of glitter and limbs. Dancers in various stages of undress moved with practiced grace around vanity mirrors framed by blindingly bright lightbulbs. The air was thick with the hum of gossip and the frantic zipping of sequins.
"Late again, Sugar? Was the Golden Boy holding you hostage in the library?"
I looked up to see Amelia—known to the patrons of the club as Poppy—leaning against a vanity, meticulously pinning a silk anemone into her platinum blonde hair. Amelia was my anchor in this world. By day, she was a senior botany major with a minor in business, her fingers usually stained with soil instead of shimmering with body glitter.
"He was... being Bash," I said, huffing as I peeled off my damp overalls. "Carrying my bag, talking about 'contracts' and 'NFL stands.' I swear, he thinks life is a romantic comedy."
Amelia laughed, the sound bright against the heavy bass of the music thumping through the floorboards from the stage. "Better a rom-com than the horror show some of these guys try to pull. At least he’s pretty to look at."
She stepped over, helping me tug the laces of my emerald green corset. I gripped the edge of the table, exhaling until my ribs felt like they were overlapping.
"One day," Amelia whispered, her eyes catching mine in the mirror. "One day soon, we’re going to be done with the glitter. We’ll have that corner lot on 5th. You’ll be pulling kouign-amanns out of the oven, the smell of butter and caramelized sugar everywhere, and I’ll be right next door. People will come in for a morning pastry and a latte, then walk through the interior door to pick up a fresh bouquet for their kitchen table. The 'Flour and Flower' empire."
A small, genuine smile finally broke through my stress. "I can already smell the lavender and yeast. It’s the only thing keeping me in these five-inch heels, Mia."
"You say that, but we both know the stage is where you actually breathe," she teased, nudging me toward my makeup kit.
She wasn't entirely wrong. It was a secret I kept buried under my "Sera" persona—the glasses, the braids, the quiet student who sat in the back of the lecture hall.
I’d been a dancer long before I was a business major. I remembered the smell of rosin and the satin of my first pair of pointe shoes. I’d been the girl who lived for the barre, the one the teachers said had "the spark." But that spark had been snuffed out the day my mom died. The medical bills had swallowed the house, the car, and finally, my dreams of Juilliard. There was no money for elite lessons or cross-country competitions.
The first time I’d walked into The Velvet Room for an audition, I’d been shaking so hard I thought my knees would give out. I looked like a stray kitten—too thin, too pale, wearing a thrift-store leotard that didn't fit. But then the music had started. The first notes of the cello had hit the air, and 12 years of muscle memory had taken over. I’d stopped being the orphan with the debt and started being a siren.
"You were a natural from the first hair-flip," Amelia recalled, watching me apply a layer of heavy, smoky eyeshadow that obscured the "Sera" in my eyes. "I’ve never seen anyone look so terrified and so lethal at the same time."
"I have to be lethal tonight," I muttered, thinking of the "work" I had to do. "I have two months of tuition left to save for."
I pulled on my long, sheer gloves and reached for the black filigree mask that sat on my vanity. As I tied the silk ribbons behind my head, the transformation was complete. The auburn curls were tucked under a blonde wig, the foundation covered my freckles, the glasses were gone, and the "Little Bellwether" Bash knew was buried under layers of mystery and lace.
I stood up, adjusting the set of my shoulders. I was Sugar. And Sugar didn't worry about statistics, quarterbacks, or fake marriage proposals.
"Break a leg, Sugar," Amelia said, giving my hand a quick squeeze. "And watch out for the VIP booth. 'Diablo' is back again tonight. He’s been asking when your set starts since the doors opened."
A chill that had nothing to do with the rain swept through me. Dante Blackwood. I nodded curtly, ignoring the way my stomach flipped. I had a job to do.
I walked toward the velvet curtain, the roar of the crowd muffled by the heavy fabric praying I could get out of here tonight with a fat stack of tips, minimal groping, and no run-ins with the devil. Oh one can dream.