Chapter 8

The roar of the stadium had finally faded into a dull, thrumming echo in my ears, replaced by the sharp, sterile hum of the air conditioning in the VIP dressing room. My legs felt like jelly, the adrenaline that had fueled the last three hours of performing and interacting with the elite crowd beginning to crash into a heavy, sweet exhaustion. I sat on the edge of the velvet chaise lounge, my dress—a second skin of silk that had clung to every curve all night—still clinging, though now it felt less like armor and more like a second layer of my own skin. Julian stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the sprawling city lights below. He was still in his stage clothes, the white shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the sweat-slicked expanse of his chest, the fabric translucent in the dim light. He looked like a god who had decided to descend among mortals for an evening and then return to his throne. He turned to me, his eyes dark, heavy with a look that wasn’t for the public, wasn’t for the cameras, but entirely for me. "Ready, baby girl?" His voice was a low rumble, barely