Chapter 9 – Judgment and Defensiveness

 

Morning sunlight creeps across the ceiling when I open my eyes. My head feels heavy, but not because of work—because of Liam. Or more specifically, because of the way Liam looked at me last night.

Like he didn’t want to look. Like he couldn’t stop.

That flicker in his eyes has been replaying in my brain like a song stuck on repeat, and I hate it. Because the last thing I need is to wonder what my grumpy, judgmental, emotionally constipated roommate thinks of me.

Dragging myself out of bed, I tie my hair into a messy bun and pull on a loose T-shirt with shorts. I don’t exactly feel like strutting around in rhinestones when Liam Carter already caught me looking like a walking disco ball.

When I walk downstairs, he’s in the kitchen. Of course. Standing there like some kind of domestic ad, pouring black coffee into a mug, all tall and broad in a navy shirt that clings way too well to his shoulders.

“Morning,” I say, aiming for casual.

“Morning.” His voice is clipped. No warmth. No eye contact.

I head straight for the fridge, determined not to let him see me rattled. But then he says it.

“I don’t know how you can come home at two in the morning and still act like everything’s normal.”

The words hang in the air, sharp and judgmental.

I glance over my shoulder. “Excuse me?”

He leans against the counter, arms folded. “I mean, I get that your… job keeps you out late, but you’re not exactly living quietly. What kind of hours are those?”

My chest tightens. “Oh, I’m sorry, Dad, I didn’t realize I needed a bedtime.”

His jaw flexes. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Really? Because it sounded an awful lot like you were judging me for doing what I do to pay my bills.”

“I’m not judging.” His tone says the opposite. “I just don’t understand why someone would choose to…” His hand flicks vaguely, like he can’t even bring himself to say it. “Perform like that.”

I slam the fridge door shut. “Perform like what, Liam? Dancing? Wearing sequins? Or is it just the part where men happen to watch me?”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m just saying it’s not exactly…”

“Respectable?” I snap.

He blinks, caught.

“Oh, there it is.” I step closer, arms crossed. “You think because I dance on a stage, I must be trashy, irresponsible, maybe even desperate. Is that it?”

He straightens, his shoulders tense. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. I’ve seen that look before. From men who think they’re too good for women like me. From women who whisper behind my back. And now from you.”

Silence pulses between us. His eyes are steady on mine, but there’s something tangled in them—frustration, guilt, something else I can’t quite name.

“I’m raising a daughter,” he says finally, voice low. “Do you understand what it feels like to think about the example being set around her?”

That hits harder than I want it to. For a moment, I falter. But then the fire in me flares right back up.

“You think I’m a bad influence?”

“I didn’t say that either.”

“But you meant it.”

His silence is confirmation enough.

My hands tremble, but I ball them into fists. “You don’t know me, Liam. You don’t know why I dance, or what I’ve been through, or how hard I work to keep myself afloat. All you see is glitter and late nights, and you slap a label on me like it’s that simple.”

His jaw clenches. “So explain it, then.”

“What?”

He steps forward, closing some of the space between us. “Explain it. Why this job? Why that life?”

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. No one ever asks me that—not sincerely. They assume. They judge. But they don’t ask.

I lift my chin. “Because when I’m on stage, for a few minutes, I’m not just the girl who barely scrapes rent together. I’m not the girl who gets ignored in daylight. I’m not invisible. I get to be… more. And people cheer, not because they know me, but because they see me shine. That’s why.”

His gaze flickers, softening for a second before hardening again. “But when the lights go out, what’s left, Zara? Who sees you then?”

The words sting because they’re too close to the truth.

My voice shakes with anger. “Not you, that’s for damn sure.”

We’re standing too close now. His shoulders rise and fall with heavy breaths, mine matching his. The air crackles, charged with something dangerous—anger, attraction, maybe both.

He looks like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t. And I don’t trust myself to stay in this kitchen one more second.

I grab my mug of coffee, ignoring the tremor in my hands, and storm toward the hallway.

But just as I pass him, his voice cuts through the silence.

“You deserve better than that stage.”

I freeze.

Slowly, I turn to face him. His eyes are steady, his expression conflicted, like he doesn’t even know why he said it out loud.

My pulse hammers in my ears. “And what exactly do you think I deserve, Liam?”

The question hangs there, unanswered. His lips part like he might respond, but no sound comes out.

And before he can, a small voice drifts from the stairs.

“Daddy? Why are you and Zara yelling?”

Emily.

She’s standing there, wide-eyed in her pajamas, clutching a stuffed rabbit.

The tension snaps, but only outwardly. Inside, I feel the fire burning hotter. Because I don’t know what’s worse—Liam’s judgment… or the fact that part of me wants him to care for reasons I don’t even want to admit.