Chapter 6

The air in the private backstage suite of the convention center was thick with the scent of hairspray, expensive perfume, and the sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of ribs, but not because of the runway. Not anymore. The lights had dimmed, the music had faded into a low, throbbing hum in the speakers, and the chaotic energy of the fashion show had distilled into something far more concentrated, far more potent. I was sprawled across a velvet chaise lounge, my silk slip dress hitched up around my waist, baring my ass to the cool, conditioned air. My skin was still buzzing from the exposure, from the hundreds of eyes that had devoured me as I walked the catwalk, but now, only one pair of eyes mattered. Only one pair of hands. He stood over me, a silhouette of power and intent against the backdrop of towering garment racks and half-packed suitcases. He was my father, the man who had raised me, taught me to walk, to talk, to dress myself, but now he looked at me like a man who wanted to devour me whole.