Chapter 10
Willow's POV
Two months. Two months of the same routine: day shifts at ValueMart, evening performances at Sunset Strip Lounge, and hospital visits squeezed in between. Two months of Ted's sweaty face hovering over my shoulder, counting my bathroom breaks.
I stood at my apartment window, watching the Los Angeles skyline flicker against the night. From this distance, the city looked like a circuit board—all neon lines and digital pulses, a promise of excitement that never quite reached Angelino Courts. My building stood in the shadow of that glamour, just close enough to see it but never touch it.
My phone buzzed with a text from Marco:
Big night tonight. "Night of Madness" event. The Firecrashers playing. Need you here by 8. Expect to stay late.
Great. Just what I needed after a double shift at ValueMart. I texted back a thumbs-up and started packing my duffel bag with tonight's costume—a red sequined number that caught the light like burning embers. It was the crowd favorite, the one that earned the most tips, and tonight I'd need every dollar I could get. Dad's new medication wasn't covered by insurance, and Mom's physical therapy had been extended another month.
I caught my reflection in the mirror as I changed. Two months ago, I might have noticed the dark circles under my eyes or the way my cheekbones seemed more pronounced. Tonight, all I saw was the bills that needed paying.
The Sunset Strip Lounge was already pulsing when I arrived. Marco had transformed the place for the "Night of Madness" event—UV lights made the graffiti-style decorations glow like radioactive veins across the walls. Smoke machines created a perpetual haze, and the normal furniture had been pushed aside to make room for a sea of bodies.
"There she is! Our Wildfire!" Marco shouted over the music when he spotted me. "Listen, big spenders tonight. VIP section is packed. The Firecrashers go on in an hour, and we need our best dancers warming up the crowd."
"Got it," I said, already heading toward the dressing room.
"And Wild," he called after me, "I need you to stay till closing. Double pay."
I nodded. It wasn't like I had a choice.
The dressing room was chaos—half-naked dancers applying glitter, fixing costumes, chugging energy drinks. I found a corner to transform myself into Wildfire, applying the heavy makeup that made me unrecognizable as Chloe's twin. On stage, I wasn't the girl who stocked shelves or worried about hospital bills. I was fire personified—dangerous, untouchable, desired.
But tonight, something felt off. As I lined my eyes with metallic red, a wave of nausea hit me. I gripped the edge of the vanity, waiting for it to pass.
"You okay, girl?" Jasmine asked.
"Fine," I lied. "Just tired."
By the time I hit the stage for my first set, the crowd was primed and ready. Bodies packed the dance floor, drinks flowed freely, and money seemed to materialize from the smoky air. I moved through my routine on autopilot, letting the music dictate my movements while my mind drifted elsewhere.
Between sets, I spotted a familiar face at the bar—Beckeet Wilder, nursing a whiskey. He caught my eye and raised his glass in salute. After that disastrous night with Damian, Beckeet seemed to come to watch my performance more frequently, always sitting at the same spot, always tipping generously, which solved my dilemma after Chloe cutting off my foster parents' medical support.
The Firecrashers took the stage at midnight, and the energy in the room shifted from simmer to boil. The lead singer, a woman with electric blue hair and tattoos crawling up her neck, grabbed the mic and screamed, "Los Angeles! Are you ready to burn this place down?"
The crowd roared in response. Champagne bottles popped in the VIP section, sending foam cascading over crystal flutes. Someone had started spray-painting one of the designated wall spaces, adding to the controlled chaos Marco had orchestrated.
Halfway through my second set, the nausea returned so violently I nearly missed a step. The moment I finished, I rushed to the bathroom, barely making it into a stall before emptying my stomach. I kneeled on the cold tile floor, shaking.
This wasn't the first time. For the past week, I'd been waking up nauseated. I'd blamed it on stress, on working too many hours, on not eating right. But as I sat there, time seemed to slow as realization crept in.
When was my last period?
I mentally counted back and felt the blood drain from my face. I was late. Very late.
No, it can't be. It was just one night. I did take medicine. This is just exhaustion.
But another part of my brain whispered: Are you sure? Your reactions speak differently.
I splashed cold water on my face, careful not to ruin my makeup, and stared at my reflection. "Get it together," I told myself. "You have another set to do."
I was midway through my third performance when Beckeet jumped on stage during a Firecrashers break. The DJ handed him a microphone, and to everyone's surprise, he launched into an improvised rap that had the crowd bouncing. Who knew the rich boy had skills?
"That's my Wildfire!" he shouted, pointing at me as he finished, generating a cheer that made the speakers rattle.
The air grew thicker as the night progressed—a potent mixture of perfume, sweat, alcohol, and whatever was being smoked in the darker corners. The floor was slick with spilled drinks, and the bass had settled into my bones like a second heartbeat.
By the end of my third set, dizziness made the lights blur into streaks, and my skin felt cold despite the heat of the crowd. I pushed through the routine, years of discipline keeping my movements precise even as my vision swam.
Just get through this song. Just get to the end.
I took my final bow as the crowd whistled and cheered. Backstage, I barely made it to the dressing room before my legs gave out. The room spun violently, and I grabbed for something—anything—to steady myself.
My fingers found only air as darkness rushed up to meet me.
I came to with Carlos, the bartender, kneeling beside me, his face tight with concern.
"Willow? Can you hear me?"
I tried to sit up, but my body refused to cooperate.
"I'm fine," I managed to whisper. "Just exhausted. Haven't been sleeping well."
"You don't look fine," Carlos said, his brow furrowed. "You're pale as a ghost."
"Really, I just need to rest—"
"I'm taking you to the hospital," he interrupted. "This isn't normal, Willow."
"No hospital," I protested weakly. "Can't afford—"
"Not negotiable," Carlos cut me off. "Marco already approved it. Says the club's insurance will cover it."
I wanted to argue further, but the room started spinning again. My last conscious thought was a silent prayer: Please don't let it be what I think it is.
Through the haze, I heard Carlos speaking urgently into his phone, giving them the address of the club.
As consciousness slipped away again, I had a strange thought: what would Damian Blackwood think if he could see me now? Would he even recognize me without the fire?