Eyes Like Knives, Lights Like Fire

What did I want?

I didn’t know yet. Maybe I could just settle for being a room attendant—something quiet, simple, out of sight. But was I strong enough to handle the kind of harassment that came with that? The wandering eyes, the suggestive comments, the power plays masked as customer service?

I looked Elaine dead in the eyes.

“How much do I earn for performing?” I asked, my voice steady—too steady for how fast my heart was pounding.

“You get a thousand dollars from DeVescori Lounge,” she said smoothly, “and additional payments depend on how your talent resonates with the audience. Some may even request you for personal bookings or private events…” She paused, letting the implication settle in the air, her eyes locking onto mine.

“That’s if you’re open to it, of course.”

A thousand dollars. That wasn’t pocket change—it could settle a lot of things. A deposit on a small apartment. A start toward getting my life back.

But private shows?

That was where the lines blurred. Something about the way she said private made my skin crawl. Like there was a second meaning hidden beneath her words, waiting to claw its way to the surface.

I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. My past was a mess. My future was hazy. But in this moment, I needed control. I needed a step forward.

“When can I begin?” I asked.

Elaine’s lips curled slowly into a knowing smile. “Singing or instruments?” She asked.

“Both,” I whispered.

She nodded, then reached into a drawer and slid a red folder across the desk toward me.

I frowned.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a contract. Just a single page,” she said lightly, like she was offering me a menu, not a binding agreement. “Simple terms.”

I flipped it open.

I expected paragraphs of conditions, bullet points, fine print.

But there were only four short lines, typed in crisp black ink across the top of the page:

“Loyalty is non-negotiable.All talent belongs to DeVescori Lounge. Confidentiality ensures protection.

Absence without permission equals termination.”

That was it.

No room for interpretation—but somehow, it felt like those lines meant more than they said. All talent belongs? Termination? It was vague on purpose. Crafted to sound plain but heavy with unspoken rules.

I closed the file and glanced back at Elaine.

“Is this all?”

She nodded once, smiling with a calmness that made my nerves itch.

“So, what do you say, Alice?”

The way she said my name didn’t sit right with me. It felt too familiar. Too final.

I stared down at the folder. It felt like it held my life in its four little lines.

I swallowed hard. Then nodded slowly.

“I’m ready,” I whispered.

“Perfect,” she exclaimed, her voice smooth as silk as she handed me a pen.

I hesitated for just a second, my fingers curling around the pen like it might bite.

But I thought about the money, about starting over—most importantly, about making Rick pay for what he did. And without another thought, I signed.

The black ink seemed to stain the paper too easily.

“When do I begin?” I asked, my voice softer now.

“This evening, if you wish,” she replied. “Otherwise, tomorrow evening officially.”

I hesitated. My instincts told me to wait, but my stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten in hours, and my pride reminded me I had no phone, no security, no control.

“How is the payment?” I asked. “Monthly or…?”

“It isn’t defined, Alice,” she answered simply. “That varies depending on the person.”

Another vague answer. Another strange rule. Another unspoken expectation.

I took a slow breath and nodded.

“Can I perform tonight?” I asked.

I wasn’t ready. God, I wasn’t ready. But maybe… just maybe I could make fifty or a hundred bucks. Enough to get a burner phone.

Elaine rose from her seat with practiced elegance.

“Come with me.”

I stood on shaky legs, every part of me screaming to turn around and run. But, I followed her anyway.

We left her office and headed down a quiet hallway.

The lights dimmed the farther we went, the air turning cooler, heavier, like the place itself was holding its breath.

Elaine led me through a side door that opened into what looked like a backstage area.

The walls were black, lined with tall racks of costumes, ropes, and lighting equipment.

A few people milled around—crew members in black shirts, a girl adjusting her sequined bra in front of a mirror, a man coiling a wire like he’d done it a hundred times before.

I stood awkwardly at the corner, clutching my arms to myself, eyes darting around.

No one really noticed me. Or maybe they were pretending not to.

A tall girl with purple hair gave me a brief glance and a half-smile before returning to whatever she was doing.

Another man walked by and gave me a “good luck” nod. It felt strange—like I was entering a family I hadn’t been invited to join, just tolerated because I had the right stamp on my wrist.

Elaine returned a few moments later, her heels clicking confidently against the floor.

“The stage is set,” she said with a smile, but her words tightened something inside me.

My stomach twisted violently. I wasn’t ready.

I was not ready.

I thought I could do this. I thought singing would be easy—muscle memory, instinct. It had once been my escape, my freedom. I could hop on a mic or a piano at any moment and lose myself.

But now? It was trauma. It was pain. Every note held memories of betrayal. Every melody was stained with Rick’s lies.

“Alice,” Elaine snapped her fingers in front of my face.

I blinked. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

She didn’t comment, just gave me a nod and gestured for me to follow. I trailed behind her, my heart thudding like a battle ground.

We walked toward the thick burgundy curtain that separated backstage from the world beyond—the audience, the judgment, the exposure.

I stopped just in front of it, my fingers trembling and damp with sweat. I shut my eyes and inhaled, but even my breath felt shaky.

And then it hit me.

No.

I turned to Elaine, who was watching me too closely—her expression unreadable, almost amused.

“Can I get a mask? Or…a veil?” I asked, my voice low.

She tilted her head, and for a second I thought she’d say no. But then she smiled. Not a soft smile—a calculated one.

“Seth,” she called over her shoulder. “Get her a veil and a mask. Or actually…” She glanced back at me.

“Let’s make this a grande night.”

The way she said it sent a prickle down my spine.

Within minutes, a crew of stylists had swept me into a changing area. It was all a blur. They stripped me down, handed me garments—deep red and gold.

I slipped into a flowing skirt and a cropped top that clung to my body.

Then came the jewelry—heavy, glittering, clinking with every movement.

Bangles, anklets, a thick necklace that pressed against my collarbone like a chain, and finally, a red veil that draped from my head, covering half of my face.

When I caught my reflection in the mirror, I barely recognized myself.

I looked like one of those tragic, beautiful Indian dancers in old gangster films—the kind who twirled into danger and didn’t make it out the same.

Elaine approached and adjusted the veil to cover my entire face, her touch delicate.

“You look stunning,” she said, her voice softer this time. “Just remember who you are.”

I murmured a quiet, “Thank you,” though I wasn’t sure I believed it.

Then I took a deep breath—and stepped through the curtain.

The lights hit me first.

Warm. Blinding. Suffocating.

Then the silence.

All conversation had quieted. The room was grand—vaulted ceilings, velvet booths, golden chandeliers that sparkled like firelight.

An elite playground. Power dripped from every corner. The kind of place where men made deals with smiles and sealed them with blood.

I scanned the room quickly.

There were women, yes, scattered around. But this audience? It was mostly men. Suited. Rich. Dangerous. They sipped drinks that probably cost more than my rent and watched the stage like they were hunting.

I tried to swallow the knot in my throat.

A woman was just finishing her act—a pottery display. Her hands were dusted in white clay, and two crew members rushed to help her off the stage.

Her piece was beautiful, but she barely received polite applause.

I wasn’t even on stage yet, and I already felt the pressure sinking into my skin.

A man approached me—broad shoulders, earpiece, clipboard in hand. Stage coordinator, I guessed.

He handed me the mic.

My fingers curled around it slowly, and it shook—visibly.

The last time I held a mic was… two years ago. Before prison. Before everything fell apart.

My chest tightened.

“Do you need anything else, ma’am?” he asked quietly.

I nodded once, then leaned toward him.

“A piano,” I whispered.

He gave a short nod and disappeared.

I was alone on stage now.

All eyes were on me. Watchful. Expectant. Scrutinizing. Like they already had their opinions before I made a sound.

I stood still, hidden behind the veil, gripping the mic like a lifeline.

But even through the fear, I could feel it.

The hunger to rise again.

To take back my voice.

To make them listen.

To make him pay.

I breathed in, and waited for the piano to arrive.