Amara’S POV

The dreams always began the same.

I was small again, barefoot on the marble floor, shadows stretching long and sharp across the Belladona estate walls. Father’s voice cut through the silence, commanding, merciless.

“Do it, Amara.”

My mother stood trembling, her hair falling in disheveled waves across her pale face. She was crying, but not for herself crying for me. Behind her, Father swirled whiskey in his glass, lips curved in a cruel smile.

The knife was heavy in my hand. Too heavy for a child, too sharp for innocence.

“Please,” she whispered, tears streaking her cheeks. “Amara, you don’t have to…”

I wanted to drop the knife. To scream. To run. But I knew if I faltered, even for a heartbeat, Father would step in. And the punishment would be worse than death.

Her eyes met mine desperate, broken, and still, impossibly, loving. It shattered me even as my hand drove the blade forward.

The sound was sickening. The warm spray against my skin was worse. She collapsed, her fingers gripping mine one last time before the light bled out of her eyes.

Father’s applause echoed in my skull.

That’s when I always woke.

I jerked upright in bed, drenched in sweat, breath ragged, fingers clenching the sheets as though the knife were still there. The apartment walls pressed close, suffocating. No matter how many times I reminded myself it was a dream, I couldn’t shake the sensation that my hands were still stained.

I didn’t go back to sleep. I rarely did.

At the club, the lights and music masked exhaustion. Eris was never tired. Eris never broke.

The other dancers laughed and gossiped in the dressing room, their voices buzzing like flies. They liked to poke at me, like children tapping glass around a caged animal.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” one teased.

Another smirked. “She probably thinks she’s too good for us.”

I ignored them. I’d perfected silence long ago.

Kira, the newest girl, tried harder. “Hey,” she said one night, sliding beside me as I tightened my heels. “You’re amazing out there. Like… unreal. I want to be like you.”

I didn’t respond. Just grabbed my mask and walked away.

She gave a small, embarrassed laugh that wilted quickly. “Right. Sure. Forget I said anything.”

Her voice followed me, tinged with hurt. I didn’t let it reach me. Attachments were a luxury I couldn’t afford.

And then there was him.

Williams.

Always in the same booth. Always still. Always watching.

He didn’t leer like the others. Didn’t drink much. Didn’t laugh. He simply sat, as though the chaos of the club bent around him, and his gaze stayed fixed on me.

The first time, I thought it was a coincidence. The second, habit. By the fifth, I knew better.

He wasn’t watching Eris. He was watching me.

After my last set that night, I shed the glitter and silk, scrubbed away the paint until only pale skin and tired eyes stared back from the mirror. Jeans. Hoodie. Sneakers. I didn’t look like Eris anymore. I barely looked like anyone.

The bar was quieter than the floor, the air hazy with smoke and liquor. I stirred the ice in my glass, savoring the illusion of solitude.

Then he was there.

“Hi.”

The word slid into the space between us, smooth, deliberate.

I turned, pulse quickening. He looked the same as always sharp suit, clean lines, presence like gravity. But up close, it was worse. His eyes were too steady, too focused.

“Hello,” I said, clipped, cautious.

“You didn’t tell me your name the other night.”

My breath caught. The other night, I’d been masked. Faceless. He wasn’t supposed to recognize me.

I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A faint smirk touched his lips, like he expected me to say that. “Don’t play dumb. I don’t forget faces. You’re the girl behind the mask.”

I forced a scoff, fingers tightening around my glass. “Lots of girls wear masks here.”

“Not like you.” His tone was calm, maddeningly sure. “The others… they perform. You don’t. You control the room. And your eyes masks can’t hide your eyes.”

I shifted, pretending boredom. “Sounds like you’ve been staring too long.”

“I have.” His honesty landed too heavy. “And I’m not sorry.”

I bristled, reaching for distance. “If you’re looking for company, talk to Victor. He’ll arrange something.”

“I’m not here for that.”

“Then why are you here?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Curiosity.”

I let out a laugh, sharp and short. “Curiosity kills.”

“Only when it’s careless.”

“And you think you’re careful?”

“I know I am.” He leaned in slightly, elbows resting on the bar, like he had all the time in the world. “So… what do I call you?”

Silence stretched. My mind fought itself. Then— “…Eris,” I said flatly.

His lips curved. “Eris. The goddess of chaos.”

I arched a brow. “You know your mythology.”

“I know power when I see it,” he said simply. “Chaos is just another form of it.”

I almost laughed. Almost. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“No.” He leaned back again, unbothered. “It’s supposed to tell you I notice details.”

For the first time, I studied him properly. He didn’t leer like the others. He didn’t fidget. His entire focus was on me, steady and unrelenting, as though nothing else in the world mattered. It was unsettling. And dangerous.

“So,” I asked, drumming my fingers on the glass, “why keep coming back? You don’t drink. You don’t tip. You just… sit there.”

“Maybe I like the show.”

I gave him a sharp look. “You don’t strike me as a man who wastes time on entertainment.”

“Maybe you’re right.” His smirk widened slightly. “Maybe I don’t.”

I tilted my head, frustrated I couldn’t read him. “Then what do you want?”

“A conversation,” he said simply. “Just like this one.”

The answer was so bare, so disarming, I almost believed him. Almost.

“You don’t know me,” I muttered.

“Not yet.” His voice was calm, assured—like knowing me was inevitable.

That was my cue. I stood, shrugging on my jacket. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

His smirk followed me, faint but sharp. “Hope has nothing to do with it.”

The night air outside hit sharp against my skin. Neon faded, replaced by the hum of the city.

Then I heard it.

Footsteps.

At first, I thought it was nothing. Just some drunk. But when I turned the corner, the steps turned too. Slow. Careful. Matching mine.

My muscles tightened, instinct coiling like a spring.

I didn’t look back. Didn’t break stride.

But my hand slid to the knife strapped to my thigh.

The steps quickened. Closed in.

Then close, too close—breath brushed the back of my neck.

The person neared.

I spun, knife flashing in the dim light, ready to drive the blade into the person’s heart..