Chapter 1 — Audition at The Velvet Inferno

Orabella

The Velvet Inferno loomed before me like a glimmering gateway to hell. Its crimson neon sign bled light into the rain-soaked pavement, casting the street in a seductive glow that promised luxury, secrets, and danger in equal measure. The faint hum of bass and electricity vibrated through the air, a pulse I could feel in my chest. I adjusted the strap of my duffel bag, the familiar weight of my concealed locket pressing against my sternum. My fingers brushed its cool metal for reassurance, the act steadying me. A keepsake—and a weapon. I wasn’t here to dazzle; I was here to infiltrate.

A line of patrons coiled around the block, their laughter and chatter mixing with the hiss of tires on wet asphalt. The women sparkled in sequins and sky-high heels, their movements catching the fractured glow of neon, while the men exuded confidence in meticulously tailored suits. Glamorous, untouchable. And then there was me—Ava Langley, the newest ghost slipping into the shadows of the Knights’ empire.

Inside, The Velvet Inferno was breathtaking, its opulence bordering on hedonistic. Crimson velvet drapes cascaded from cathedral-high ceilings, framing walls of dark mahogany and mirrored glass. Chandeliers dripped with crystal, casting fractured light that pirouetted across the polished marble floor. The air was thick with the heady blend of expensive perfume, sweat, and spilled champagne. I kept my gaze steady, though every detail demanded to be cataloged. Above the floor, mirrored panels concealed the VIP lounges, their vantage points perfect for silent observation. My focus lingered there a moment longer, a fleeting thought forming: one day, I’d have to find a way to move unseen even under their scrutiny.

“Name?”

The bouncer’s voice—a low growl—dragged my attention to the human mountain in front of me. His suit strained against shoulders that could have rivaled Atlas himself. Sharp eyes scanned me, lingering a moment too long on my face.

“Ava Langley,” I lied smoothly, handing him the printed flyer that promised auditions for the club’s new season of performers.

The paper crinkled in his hands as he scanned it, his expression unreadable. After a beat, his head jerked toward the side entrance. “Through there. Straight to the stage.” His tone carried a note of indifference, but his gaze flicked to the security camera mounted above the entrance, a small, calculated movement that didn’t escape me.

My heels clicked against the polished floor as I stepped past him, each sound a metronome marking the seconds before the audition. The corridor leading to the stage was narrower, darker, the glamour of the main floor peeling away to reveal exposed brick walls and dim, industrial lighting. The bass grew stronger, each beat a reminder of the rhythm I’d soon need to master.

Half a dozen women clustered near the stage, their faces a kaleidoscope of nerves and determination. They stretched or adjusted their costumes with precision, their low voices tinged with tension. A woman with a clipboard and a severe black bob stood at the center of the room, her presence cutting through the noise like a blade.

“You—Ava Langley?” she demanded, her pen poised over the clipboard.

“Yes,” I replied, my tone sharp, measured.

“You’re up next. Nothing over three minutes. Make it count.” Her gaze was assessing, sharp as glass, before she turned on her heel, dismissing me as easily as she’d summoned me.

I nodded and slipped out of my coat, revealing the black leotard beneath. Simple, elegant—just enough to blend in without drawing unnecessary attention. As I adjusted the neckline, my fingers grazed the locket beneath the fabric. Its weight was grounding, a reminder of my purpose. A memory surfaced unbidden—the sound of my father’s low, rumbling laugh, the kind that filled a room. It lingered for the briefest of moments before I shoved it aside. Emotions were a luxury I couldn’t afford right now.

The clipboard woman gestured sharply, and I stepped onto the stage. The spotlight blazed to life, a searing contrast to the shadows that enveloped the rest of the room. Though I couldn’t see them, I could feel their eyes on me—watchful, dissecting, waiting. Somewhere in those shadows was Reyna Knight. My heartbeat quickened, but I forced it to steady, channeling the rush into poise.

The haunting melody began, its first notes slow and deliberate, slipping into the air like smoke. My body answered instinctively, each movement deliberate yet fluid, toeing the line between grace and seduction. I let the music pull me under, my arms slicing through the air, my hips rolling with a rhythm that hinted at fire beneath the ice. My feet carried me across the stage, each step a calculated decision that subtly shifted my angle, offering fleeting glimpses of the mirrored glass above the floor and the shadowed figures behind it.

Every flick of my wrist, every arch of my back, was designed to ensnare. To distract. To hide the fact that I wasn’t just another dancer seeking a shot at stardom. My gaze flicked—briefly—to the periphery of the stage, where a small, darkened corner housed a discreetly mounted security camera. Its lens barely glinted under the stage lights, but I saw it. Noted it. My mind filed the detail away with the rest.

As the music swelled, I leaned into the movement, letting vulnerability seep into my performance. Longing. Strength. A story told without words. I kept my arms fluid, my legs strong, every movement deliberate. When the final note faded, I froze mid-turn, my arms outstretched and my chest heaving in measured breaths.

The silence stretched, taut and expectant, before a slow clap broke it.

“Well, that was something.” The voice was sharp, feminine, laced with faint amusement.

Reyna Knight.

I turned slightly, catching her reflection in one of the mirrored panels. She lounged on the edge of a VIP booth, her legs crossed with casual elegance, but her sharp green eyes pinned me in place like a predator toying with its prey. One manicured hand rested on the stem of a crystal glass, her fingers tapping it once before stilling. The faintest quirk of her lips hinted at amusement, but her gaze held a razor’s edge—assessing, calculating.

The clipboard woman cleared her throat nervously, her gaze darting between Reyna and me. “You’re hired. Report back tomorrow for orientation.” Her words were clipped, almost dismissive, but I didn’t miss the faint tremor in her voice.

I inclined my head in acknowledgment, keeping my features neutral. As I stepped off the stage and slipped back into my coat, I felt Reyna’s gaze sharp between my shoulder blades—a silent warning, a promise of future obstacles. Her approval might have been my first victory, but it left no room for complacency.

The cool night air hit me like a slap as I stepped outside, washing away the haze of adrenaline. My chest tightened with the familiar ache of grief—a ghostly whisper of my father’s voice, his laughter—but I locked it away. I couldn’t afford distractions. Not now.

I stole one last glance at the club, its crimson glow a beacon against the dark cityscape. The Velvet Inferno had opened its gates to me, but I knew better than to believe it was just a job. This was the first move in a long game, and every step would be under watchful eyes.

I turned away, the scent of rain-soaked asphalt filling my lungs as I walked into the shadows.