Page 1 of Punishing His Runaway Bride
Chapter One
Olivia
The smell of the dressing room hit me like a fist—cheap perfume, deodorant, and mildew hiding somewhere in the corner.
Music from the next booth rattled the makeup mirror, blurring my reflection. One bulb was dead. The rest flickered, splitting my face in half—one side in light, one in shadow, like those women in horror movies who never make it past the first ten minutes.
I stared at the mirror for thirty seconds.
Then decided not to look anymore.
"The neckline could go lower."
Maria circled behind me and yanked down the fabric at my chest. I stepped back instinctively. She didn't even blink. "First-timers are all like this. Shy and fidgety. You'll loosen up once you're on stage. I've seen it a hundred times."
She had seen it. I could hear it in her tone—calm, matter-of-fact, not even bothering with comfort. Just stating a fact.
"Did you drink?" She nodded at the vodka bottle on the table.
"Yeah."
"How much?"
"...One sip."
She looked at me. That look translated to something like: Are you kidding me?
She shoved the bottle into my hand. "Drink more. Not saying get drunk. Just loosen that rod in your spine. Right now, you're standing there straighter than a broomstick. Get on stage like that, everyone's gonna think a nun walked in."
"Please, Maria, give me a break."
"No. Not happening. I'm not letting you ruin the club's reputation." Maria crossed her arms, her smoky eyes locked on me like if I didn't drink, I wasn't leaving this room.
I sighed and twisted off the cap. Took a big gulp.
Burned. Not the smooth kind. The kind that scorched your throat, like swallowing hot coals. I coughed. My eyes watered.
Maria looked satisfied. She took the bottle back. "Good girl. Remember, everyone here tonight has money. Don't be scared. They won't climb on stage. You just dance. The bills will fly themselves."
She checked her watch. "Five minutes. You're up."
Five minutes.
I glanced down at the mirror—forget it. Said I wouldn't look.
I ran the numbers again in my head. Dad's debt. Last month, it rolled over with interest. The fat guy who kept calling wasn't polite anymore. Last week, he even showed up outside Sophie's school. When Sophie called me, her voice was calm, but I knew she was scared. She just didn't want me to worry.
She was seventeen. Seventeen-year-olds shouldn't know what debt collectors look like.
So tonight, I was here.
Simple as that.
While I waited at the side of the stage, I imagined myself as an empty container.
My ballet teacher taught me this. Before you go on stage, clear out everything. Let the music pour in. She never said what "everything" meant. I guess she was thinking nerves or distractions. She didn't expect one of her students would use this trick to empty out thoughts like "I'm backstage at a strip club right now."
She probably didn't expect me to end up here.
