Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 143870 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 719(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 143870 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 719(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
Ares’ assurance makes me feel slightly better about the stalker situation, because there’s nothing that goes on in this city that man isn’t aware of. If my past had come calling, he would know.
In keeping with the performance, I stop by a few more groups, dragging my fingers over the tablecloths, tapping to the beat of the music, and even lighting one man’s cigar.
When I return to the stage, I take a slow, deliberate walk to the elevated champagne glass, stopping at the bottom of the platform.
With a glance over my shoulder, I reach up and tug the strings around my neck. The gold dress cascades over my body and pools around my heels.
As I begin my ascent up the stairs to the platform, I pause for dramatic effect to strip off my corset, followed by the opera gloves. When I’m finished, all that’s left is my chain bra and a pair of very cheeky champagne shorts.
My back is bared to the audience save for one tiny metal chain, and I’m not sure if it’s the chill in the air or a certain gaze that makes me shiver.
When I reach the top of the platform, four ladies in waiting dance to a slow rhythm, champagne bottles at the ready. I step into the bath that’s already half full of bubbles, and ease my way into the oversized champagne glass.
Once I’m settled, I drape myself back dramatically, and one of the other women hands me a feather fan. The ladies in waiting perform a synchronized pour, filling the bath with champagne.
After they step back to the safety line, I fan myself as the glass starts to spin. In unison, we lip-sync the words to the song, the dancers snapping their fingers to the beat. I kick up my heels with a theatrical flourish, splashing the champagne around me. Then, in one last display, my ladies take a bow as I appear to hold the last note.
Finally, I rest the fan against my forehead, tipping my head back, and the stage goes dark.
The curtain closes, the lights come back on, and chaos unfolds. A slow, smoky jazz filters through the speakers as stagehands race to remove props and the rest of the cast returns to the stage.
One of the other performers helps me from the champagne glass, and someone tosses me my robe from below. By the time we get down the platform stairs, I have the robe wrapped around me, and the rest of my costume is already gone.
Two men roll the elevated champagne glass away, and we all take our places center stage. The curtain rises to a wave of applause as the entire cast takes a bow and confetti bursts into the air overhead, fluttering around us like snow.
Some of the audience members toss flowers onto the stage, and after an eternity of cheers and whistles, the show is over. The emcee does his outro as we smile and wave, then the curtain closes, and we all take a collective breath.
Meredith congratulates us on a job well done as everyone filters out into the hallway. The dressing room is loud and frenzied as the other dancers rush to change out of their costumes. But I grab my bag and head for the shower, eager to wash the champagne off.
After a quick clean-up, I change into a black strapless midi dress with a sweetheart neckline. There’s an expectation that we keep up appearances if we hang around, and this dress contours in all the right places, delivering effortless old Hollywood glamour. I pair it with some black pumps, opera gloves, and a glittering Swarovski collar necklace.
By the time I return to my dressing table, the last two dancers are leaving. Most of them like to socialize in the club following the show, with the exception of the few who go home right away.
I take a seat to touch up my hair and makeup, but when a shadow falls over the room, I glance up to find Cristian darkening the doorway.
“You aren’t supposed to be back here,” I tell him, realizing how stupid it sounds as soon as I say it.
There isn’t a soul alive who would dictate what this man can and can’t do.
He disregards my observation and closes in behind me, meeting my gaze in the mirror. We stare at each other for an uncomfortably long stretch of silence, and he lets me stew in that tension before he finally speaks.
“Have you been enjoying your little games tonight?”
“What games?” I powder my face.
“Is that how we’re going to play this?” The warmth of his body brushes my back.
Ignoring him, I focus on applying another coat of lipstick and blotting it with tissue paper.
“Do I make you nervous, Chantel?”
His voice rolls down my spine, sending goosebumps skittering over my arms.
“If by nervous, you mean irritated, then yes,” I answer primly.