Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
I finish the turn, hips swaying, and drop into the final pose when a familiar voice cuts through the noise like a knife.
“Indie?”
I freeze. Viola. My little sister. Here. Unannounced.
She’s weaving through the chaos in ripped black jeans, a leather jacket slung over a band tee, dark hair choppy and streaked purple. Same defiant chin as when she was twelve and told Mom she was done with tiaras forever. She looks tired, though—shadows under her eyes, shoulders hunched like she’s carrying more than just a backpack.
I step off the stage fast, bare feet slapping the floor. “Vi? What the hell are you doing here?”
She gives me that half-smirk, the one that used to get her out of trouble. “Surprise visit. Cupid City’s got good vibes, right?” Her eyes flick past me to Mack, who’s already moving, closing the distance in three strides. He plants himself slightly in front of me—not blocking, but definitely between us. He’s so protective. And it completely undoes me.
“Who’s this?” he asks, voice low and flat. Not a question. An assessment.
“My sister. Viola.” I touch his arm, light, reassuring. “It’s okay.”
He doesn’t relax. “She on the list?”
“She’s family,” I say, sharper than I mean to. Then softer, to Vi, “How’d you even get back here?”
“Flashed my ID and said I was your plus-one emergency. Worked on the door guy.” She shrugs like it’s nothing, but her fingers twist the strap of her bag. She’s nervous. I can tell. “Can we… talk? Privately?”
Mack’s gaze flicks to me. I nod once. He steps aside but stays close enough to hear, arms still crossed, jaw tight. He doesn’t trust surprises. Not today. Probably not ever.
We move to a quiet corner behind a rack of gowns. Viola exhales, dropping the bravado. “I’m in a bind, Indie. The band’s van died outside Atlanta. Repairs are three grand. Tour’s booked, gigs are paid, but we’re tapped out. I just need a loan. I’ll pay it back. Promise.”
I study her. The same story, different city. But her eyes are pleading, not entitled. And damn it, she’s my sister.
“How much?” I ask quietly.
“Three thousand. Maybe four if the alternator’s shot too.”
Mack shifts behind me. I can feel his disapproval radiating like heat. Unannounced. No security check. Possible risk. But I can’t turn her away—not here, not now.
“I’ll wire it tonight,” I tell her. “After the show. But Vi… you can’t just show up like this. Not with everything going on.”
She nods fast. “I know. I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”
I pull her into a quick hug. She smells like cigarette smoke and cheap van air freshener. “Stay for the show if you want. I’ll get you a seat. But don’t disappear again, okay?”
She squeezes me back. “Deal.”
As she walks away toward the exit, Mack steps closer, voice a low rumble in my ear. “You sure about her?”
“She’s family,” I repeat, softer this time. “And she’s not the stalker.”
He doesn’t argue, but his hand brushes the small of my back—warm and steady. A silent promise: he’s got me. Even if he doesn’t like the variables.
I exhale, square my shoulders, and head back to the runway. Showtime’s coming. And so is whatever’s next.
EIGHT
MACK
I watch from the wings as Indigo glides down the runway one last time during the final rehearsal, her body a symphony of grace and confidence in that barely-there crimson lingerie set. The lights catch every curve, making her skin glow like she's lit from within. Damn, she's stunning. Not just the supermodel facade—the real her, the one who taunts me with that wicked smile and pushes all my buttons. A couple of days ago, I would've called it a distraction. Now? It's everything. I'm falling hard, and it's terrifying. But I can't look away.
The director, a wiry guy named Enzo with a clipboard and a perpetual scowl, claps his hands. "Perfect, Indigo! That's the strut—sexy, empowering, with just enough heart for Cupid City. Everyone, take five. Show starts in an hour. Wardrobe, double-check seams. Lights, sync the pyros. No screw-ups tonight!"
Indigo hops off the stage, robe slung over her shoulders but not tied, giving me a teasing flash of skin as she approaches. Her eyes sparkle with that mix of adrenaline and mischief. "How'd I look, bodyguard? Ready to steal the show?"
I step closer, my hand instinctively brushing her arm—protective, but also because I need the contact. "You look like trouble. The good kind." My voice comes out rougher than intended, laced with the heat from this morning. That shower... her moans echoing off the tiles, the way she begged. Fuck, I'm hooked.
She laughs, low and throaty, leaning into me just enough to make my pulse spike. "Flattery? From you? Careful, Mack, I might think you're going soft."
"Soft's the last thing I am around you," I mutter, glancing around to ensure no one's too close. The crew's bustling—hair stylists fluffing, makeup artists touching up—but eyes are on us. Optics. Fake couple. Except it's not fake anymore. Not after last night, when the dam broke and I couldn't keep my hands off her.