Chapter 2 The Black Card

The card felt heavier than it should have. Just a sliver of metal-pressed plastic-but in Celene's palm, it pulsed like a live thing. She slipped it into her boot, heart racing.

*What game is this man playing?*

Back in the dressing room, the walls reeked of perfume and desperation. Girls peeled off sequins and glitter like armor after war. But Celene sat alone on the bench, still in her bodysuit, still barefoot, her reflection a stranger in the cracked mirror.

Her fingers itched to touch the card again.

*Don't. That's how it starts.*

"Was that him?" a voice rang behind her. Jazmine-fellow dancer, part-time gossip, full-time hurricane. She wore a robe half-open and a smirk fully loaded. "The Booth Guy?"

Celene said nothing. Jazmine rolled her eyes. "Girl, you should have seen how he looked at you. Like you were a damn crime scene he couldn't wait to revisit."

Celene shrugged. "He's rich. They all look like that when they're bored."

"You say that like you ain't curious."

"I'm not," Celene lied, then stood. "He gave me a card."

"Billionaire black card or freaky cult invite?"

"I don't know," she muttered, suddenly unsure which would be worse.

❦

The next morning, the city looked different. Brighter. Hungrier. Her apartment was a sixth-floor shoebox in Midwood with peeling wallpaper and one working burner. Celene flipped eggs with one hand, stared at the card on the counter with the other.

Adrian Valerio.

*Next time, belong to me.*

Arrogant bastard.

*And yet...*

*Why does that voice still live in my skin?*

The knock came fast and hard. Not friendly. Not patient.

She froze. No one visited unannounced. Not here.

Another knock. Three beats. Precise.

She opened the door with the chain on.

"Celene Rivera?"

The man was in a dark grey suit, mid-thirties, clean-cut, and too polished to be a cop.

"Who's asking?"

He held up a business card.

Nathan Bellamy

Personal Counsel to Mr. Adrian Valerio

Valerio Corp.

Of course.

"My client asked me to deliver this."

He passed her a black envelope. Sealed with wax. Extra.

She took it slowly. "What is it?"

"A dinner invitation."

"Why not just text like a normal psychopath?"

Bellamy didn't flinch. "Mr. Valerio prefers things... old-fashioned."

She cracked the seal after the door shut. Inside: an elegant invite written in calligraphy, detailing a dinner at Maison Pierre, the most exclusive French restaurant in Manhattan. Tonight. 9 PM. Her name printed in gold.

Below it:

*Come hungry. For food or answers-your choice.*

Celene stared at the script. Her fingers trembled.

*What do you want from me, Adrian Valerio?*