Page 25

The sweat clung to me like a second skin, a testament to the grueling hours I'd poured into becoming… well, this. A creature of sinuous movement, suggestive whispers, and calculated glances. Months of "exploring my inner sexuality," as Grayson, the haunt's enigmatic CEO, so eloquently put it, had whipped us all into a frenzy of controlled sensuality. It was January, and the after-effects of New Year's, my first real performance, were still rippling through me.

New Year's Eve had been…electric. James, always my rock, had somehow pulled strings and landed me a thirty-minute dance slot at the last minute. It was a blur of pulsing lights, thumping music, and the intoxicating energy of the crowd. The cheers had vibrated right through me, a physical manifestation of acceptance and appreciation. And oh, the bonus for overtime. That had felt good. But the aftermath, the aching muscles, the bone-deep fatigue – that was a different story. Luckily, we got a week off.

James had been a constant, his visits a welcome break from the quiet solitude of my hotel room. He'd brought over takeout, we'd watched bad movies, and yeah, there were those moments of explosive passion that left me gasping for air. But it was more than just the physical. His laughter, his easy presence, that's what kept the loneliness at bay. It was weird, this dependence I had on him. I liked him, not just in that way, but genuinely, as a person. It's strange to find actual friendship when your job is about simulating it.

This week, though, James was like a phantom, drifting in and out, always with a hurried touch or a lingering look before disappearing again to the gym or to his office, always busy. I found myself staring at the clock, willing him to reappear, the silence of the hotel room pressing down on me. I longed for his teasing smiles, his silly jokes, even his annoying habit of stealing the last of my fries. What was happening to me?

Soon though, I would be moving out of the claustrophobic hotel room. The money I'd earned over the last few months had finally come through, and I'd bought a small house, a tangible proof of my progress, of me finally becoming myself. My training was winding down, the final act of turning myself into the performer they wanted. I would finally stand on my own two feet as a completed actress/performer at the "Haunted Hook Up well now the Holiday Hook up." It should feel… amazing.

So why, then, did this nagging feeling of unease prickle beneath my skin? It wasn't just the fatigue, or the post-holiday blues. It was…something else. Something intangible, unsettling. It was the feeling that I was being watched.

It had started weeks ago, after my first small gig in December. I'd come back to my hotel room to find a single blue rose on my pillow. It was beautiful, captivating, but there was no note, no explanation. It was like it had just… materialized. I'd dismissed it as a prank, someone being silly, but they kept arriving. One every few days, a silent blue stalk mocking me with its beauty and mystery. I had asked James if he had done it but he just laughed saying he prefers red roses for girls he likes. I had never seen a blue rose till now.

I tried to ignore them, but they were a constant, nagging reminder that I wasn't as anonymous as I thought. I had a secret admirer, or perhaps a stalker.

I got out of bed and looked at the bouquet of fresh blue roses i had gotten this morning, what does he want, what does he mean with all this. I picked up the vase they were in and walked to my window and just sat there as the sun warmed my face, staring at the roses and feeling this strange unexplainable feeling.

Grayson, with his quiet intensity and watchful eyes, was the obvious suspect. He'd once made a comment about how he was always "observing" his talent, to ensure the best possible performance. It was his little way of reminding us he was in control. And something about him, the way he looked at me sometimes – cool, assessing, almost predatory – sent a shiver down my spine. But he is too intelligent and too powerful to do something so cliché.

Or was he? Was he the one leaving those enigmatic blue roses? It was a twisted kind of courtship, a silent taunt. A reminder of who was watching, who was always present, but never seen. I ran my finger across the petals of the soft blue rose, my stomach churning, a mix of trepidation and a strange, twisted curiosity.

My life was just beginning, yes, but it already felt as if I was walking a tightrope, the wind whispering secrets I wasn't sure I wanted to hear and I have a feeling I might fall soon, and I don't know what's waiting for me if I do.