Chapter 5
Willow's POV
I quickly changed back into my regular clothes but kept my heavy smoky eye makeup on. The thick foundation would make it harder for anyone to recognize me outside my Wildfire persona. The bass from the club music pounded through the walls as I stuffed my sequined outfit into my locker.
The Sunset Strip Lounge was pulsing with energy tonight. Laser lights cut through artificial fog while the DJ transitioned between tracks, each bass drop making the floor vibrate. Friday nights in LA always brought out the beautiful people—wannabe celebrities, tech bros flashing cash, and industry insiders making deals in dark corners.
Through the sea of dancing bodies, I spotted him—Damian Blackwood—saying goodbye to some business associate in the VIP section. The man who owed me money. The man who promised me one million dollars when I saved his drunk ass from drowning.
"Here," Carlos said, sliding a glass of lemon water across the bar. "Hydrate before you do something stupid."
I grabbed the glass. "I'm just getting my two grand back. The medical bills I paid for that jerk."
"That's Damian Blackwood. Be careful, Wildfire. Men like him eat girls like you for breakfast."
I downed the water, my mind flashing to Chloe's threat: "If you ever use my name again or go near Damian, your foster parents might find themselves without medical support."
But then I thought about my mounting bills, my parents' medical expenses, and the damn promise he'd made. One million dollars. Even a fraction of that could solve everything.
I weaved through the packed dance floor. On the platform, a rapper hyped up the crowd, gold chains catching the strobe lights. Damian was checking his phone, his expression cold as a server handed him his suit jacket. He was preparing to leave. It was now or never.
I planted myself directly in his path. "Mr. Blackwood, remember what you owe me?"
His eyes flicked up, glacier-cold. "Sorry, do we know each other?"
"Three days ago. The Los Angeles River. You were drowning, promised me 'one million' if I saved you? At least give me back the two thousand dollars I paid for your medical bills!"
His expression hardened as he motioned to a security guard. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I was rescued by Chloe Sinclair that night."
The security guard stepped forward, but I stood my ground. "Then how would I know exactly what you said while you were half-conscious? 'One million dollars if you save me.' Those were your exact words."
Damian raised his hand, stopping the guard. His eyes narrowed as he studied my face. "Who are you, exactly?"
"The person who pulled you out of that river. You were completely wasted, fell in, and I dragged your ass out. Then I paid for your medical treatment."
He examined my features, his gaze moving from my eyes to the contours of my face. Something flickered across his expression. "You do look somewhat like Chloe..."
"We're twins. But that's not important. What matters is you owe me money."
A manager hurried over. "Is there a problem, Mr. Blackwood?"
"No issue. You can all wait outside. I need to discuss something... private with this lady."
"Follow me," Damian said, nodding toward a dark hallway.
I looked at where he was pointing and scoffed. "The back alley? Do I look stupid to you?"
Without waiting for his response, I grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the performers' corridor. "If we're talking, we're doing it on my turf."
As I dragged him along, I caught sight of an elegant silver-haired woman in the VIP section, watching us with an approving smile. The odd expression made me pause, but I continued pulling Damian through the backstage area.
I shoved open the door to the dancers' dressing room and pulled him inside, locking it behind us. "In here, no one will interrupt us."
Damian surveyed the narrow, cluttered room with obvious distaste. Costumes hung from every hook, and makeup kits were scattered across the counters. "So this is Wildfire's den?"
The stage lights filtered through the blinds, alternating between brightness and shadow. That's when I noticed it—pinned to the left pocket of his suit was a family badge identical to the one I'd found after saving him, the one that had disappeared from my apartment.
"Wait," I said, my voice catching. "That pin on your chest... that bitch stole mine! That's how Chloe knew all the details!"
"Chloe has already told me everything," he said coldly. "Her twin sister, a club dancer, always impersonating her to scam people."
"Open your damn eyes!" I snapped back. "Why would I risk Chloe's threats to find you? Just for two thousand dollars?"
As we argued, I noticed Damian's face growing flushed. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He loosened his tie with unsteady fingers. "It's... too hot in here."
I eyed him warily. "What's wrong with you? Your temperature's rising fast."
"Someone... my drink..." he mumbled, his voice becoming slurred. His pupils dilated as he braced himself against the wall.
The stage lights suddenly shifted to intense red, bathing us both in crimson. Before I could react, Damian pushed me against the makeup counter, my back hitting the mirror as his lips crashed into mine.
His hands gripped my waist with unexpected urgency. I tried to push him away. "What the hell are you—"
But his mouth was on mine again, hungry and demanding. His eyes were glazed, his breathing ragged. Someone had definitely put something in his drink.
"Blackwood, stop," I gasped between kisses. "You're not yourself."
He didn't seem to hear me. His fingers tangled in my hair as he pressed his body against mine. Despite my anger, I felt my resistance weakening. The makeup bottles scattered across the counter as he lifted me onto it.
"This is insane," I whispered, even as my arms betrayed me by wrapping around his neck.
His expensive cologne filled my senses as our bodies connected. His usually cold eyes were now dark with desire, unfocused yet somehow seeing only me.
The music outside was deafening, drowning out any sounds from the dressing room as we surrendered to whatever madness had taken hold.
I sat slumped on the dressing room bench, clothes disheveled, makeup smeared. What just happened felt like a fever dream, but the reality was all too present in the silence that now hung between us.
Damian stood with his back to me, methodically straightening his suit, every movement calculated and emotionless, as if the past minutes of passion had never happened. The red lights had faded, replaced by harsh fluorescents that showed every detail of our disheveled appearances.
Without a word, he pulled out his wallet, extracted a thick wad of cash, and placed it on the makeup counter. "Five thousand dollars. Remember to take the morning-after pill, or you know the consequences."
I stared at the money, fury and humiliation burning in my chest. Damn rich people... you think money solves everything?
He walked to the door, then paused without turning around. "This ends here."
After the door closed behind him, I looked at my reflection in the mirror—mascara streaked down my cheeks, lipstick smudged beyond repair. In that moment, I wasn't Wildfire the confident dancer, just Willow—broke, used, and completely out of her depth.
I let out a single, emphatic "Fuck!"