8

Giselle

A new fucking life.

When I landed in Chicago, I needed work that didn’t come with background checks or nosy questions. So here I am—waitress slash dancer at a club where real names are about as common as uNicholasrns. Perfect cover for someone who technically doesn’t exist anymore.

It wasn’t exactly my childhood dream, but life’s funny that way. Music and dancing used to be my escape—contemporary dance where every movement told a story without needing words. Now I’m telling a different kind of story, and honestly? The audience seems pretty entertained.

I’m not built like the other girls here. No curves that could stop traffic, just a body carved by years of actual dance training. But apparently that works too, because these middle-aged guys look at me like I’m serving up their favorite fantasy on a silver platter.

Every night under these harsh-ass lights, I become someone else. It’s weirdly empowering until it’s not, until my skin feels like it’s crawling with invisible bugs and I remember this is all just elaborate hide-and-seek.

The absolute worst part—besides the whole dead parents thing—is that I couldn’t even go to their funeral. Had to fake my own death to throw those Italian psychos off my trail. I try not to think too hard about where Malik found a body that could pass for mine. Some questions are better left unanswered.

Six months. Six fucking months since everything went to hell.

I adjusted my dress—too tight, like everything else in this new life—as the girls on stage gyrated to some Jeremih track. Spotted Adrian behind the bar looking like the only sane person in this place.

“Adrian!” I called out, navigating through the crowd in heels that were basically torture devices with straps. “What’s the deal with tonight’s circus?”

“Bachelor party. VIP section.” He nodded toward the back like he was directing traffic.

I leaned against the bar. “Please tell me they’re not as grabby as the last bunch.”

That group got the boot after getting too handsy. I may have introduced one guy’s fingers to my drink tray. Louisa, our boss, thought it was hilarious. “Should’ve chopped their dicks off,” she’d said with that terrifying laugh of hers.

Adrian grinned, dark hair falling into his eyes. “Nah, this group’s chill.”

Then Tashir appeared, gliding through the crowd like she was born in sequins. Platinum hair, killer smile, the whole package that made every guy in the room forget his own name.

“Summer!” She wrapped me in a hug that smelled like expensive perfume and ambition. Leaned over the bar to flash Adrian that smile. “Looking particularly tasty tonight, bartender boy.”

Adrian’s smirk could’ve powered the neon signs. “You’re not looking too shabby yourself, Tashir.”

“Thanks! Crowd’s absolutely wild tonight.” She turned back to me. “You dancing or what?”

“Waitressing. Louisa’s short-staffed.”

“God, I hope these guys aren’t complete nightmares like last time.”

“They’re not,” Adrian said, pouring shots like he was conducting an orchestra.

The music switched to The Weeknd, all dark beats and sexual tension. I grabbed my tray of drinks, gave them a wave, and dove back into the chaos.

Standing outside my apartment door at god-knows-what-hour, juggling groceries and searching for keys like I was defusing a bomb. The key ring mocked me with its twisted metal maze.

“Come on,” I muttered, grocery bag threatening to stage a rebellion.

Just as I was about to lose my shit completely, I heard a door open behind me.

“Need some help there, struggling swan?”

I glanced back. Luigi, leaning against his doorframe like he was posing for some leather jacket commercial.

“That charming smile isn’t gonna work on me,” I shot back.

Luigi was textbook player material—good-looking, knew it, thought he was doing womankind a favor by existing. We had exactly zero romantic chemistry, which made him the perfect neighbor.

He pushed off the frame, ignoring my sarcasm. “You’re stubborn as hell.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You could just set the bags down.”

“Shut up,” I said, but he was already reaching for one of my bags.

Once my hands were free, I finally got the damn door open. He followed me in, set the groceries on my counter like he lived here.

“Homemade pizza,” he observed, peering into the bags like a detective examining evidence.

“Yeah.” I shrugged like making pizza at midnight was totally normal behavior.

“Now? It’s almost midnight.”

“I know.” I tore open the pepperoni package. “But ignoring my stomach is like being one move away from beating that impossible Candy Crush level, only to watch everything explode because one stupid candy refuses to cooperate.”

He burst out laughing—the kind that’s completely infectious.

“Seriously,” I continued, tossing a pepperoni slice in my mouth, “my stomach’s like those annoying phone notifications. Constant. Demanding. Won’t shut up.” His phone buzzed right on cue, because of course it did. “See? Just like that.”

Luigi was still laughing, shaking his head like I was some kind of entertainment.

“Don’t judge me.”

“I’m not judging.” He raised his hands in mock surrender, leaning against the counter with that playful look. “But if this pizza’s inedible, what’s Plan B? Taco Bell? McDonald’s? Emergency Chinese?”

“First of all, this pizza will ruin all other pizzas for you forever. Second, there’s always 24-hour drive-thrus if you’re not brave enough to trust my culinary genius.”

“True. But I think I’ll stick around and roll the dice.”

I flicked a piece of pepperoni at him like a tiny, greasy frisbee. “You’ll have to beg first.”