EIGHT

The lights dimmed, and the familiar hum of anticipation filled the air as Mae stood behind the velvet curtain, her heart pounding in sync with the heavy bass of the music. She had been through this routine a thousand times— the costume, the makeup, the practiced moves—but tonight felt different. Tonight, her mind was elsewhere.

She had decided to stay and fight. She had decided to take control. But in moments like this, on stage, she felt as if her control was slipping. Everything felt performative now—her smiles, her movements, even the applause that would inevitably follow. This was her life, her stage, but somehow it all felt like someone else was pulling the strings.

With a deep breath, she shook off the thought. She had a job to do, a role to play, and she couldn't afford to lose her focus. Not now. Not when she was being watched.

The music shifted, growing louder, signaling her entrance. She plastered a smile on her face as the curtain slowly rose, revealing the dark, smoky room beyond. Her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, scanning the crowd without making it obvious. Regulars, tourists, and wealthy patrons filled the seats, their eyes glued to the stage, waiting for her to dazzle them. She had been the headliner at Hell's Angels long enough to recognize the familiar faces, the leering gazes, and the power dynamics that played out in the shadows.

But then, there was a new face. One that stood out from the rest.

In the back of the room, sitting alone at a small, dimly lit table, was a man she hadn't seen before. His eyes were fixed on the stage, but unlike the other men in the room, his gaze wasn't hungry or possessive. It was tired, weary even, as if he was looking for something more than just entertainment. He looked out of place, yet somehow familiar.

Mae's heart skipped a beat, and for a split second, she faltered in her routine. She caught herself quickly, gliding back into the rhythm of the music, her body moving with practiced precision. But her mind was no longer in sync with the beat. It was racing, trying to place the man in the back, the one who seemed to stir something deep inside her.

She forced herself to focus on her performance, her hips swaying in time with the pulsing music, her movements fluid and sensual. The crowd responded as they always did, but Mae's attention kept drifting back to the man at the table, his silhouette barely visible in the shadows. There was something about him, something that tugged at a memory she couldn't quite grasp.

As the performance went on, Mae's curiosity grew. Who was he? Why did he feel so familiar? She stole glances at him whenever she could, trying to see more of his face, to understand why he stood out so much amidst the usual patrons of the club.

The lights on stage flickered as the music hit its crescendo, and Mae executed her final move, her body arching gracefully before landing softly on the stage. The applause was immediate, loud and enthusiastic, but Mae barely registered it. Her gaze drifted back to the man at the table.

He wasn't clapping. He wasn't leering. He was simply watching her with a calm intensity that made her feel more exposed than she ever had on that stage. His face remained unreadable, but there was a flicker in his eyes—a brief moment of recognition that sent a chill down her spine.

Mae's heart pounded as the lights dimmed again, signaling the end of the performance. The curtain lowered, and she was left alone in the darkness of the backstage, her breath shallow and uneven. She could hear the murmur of the crowd, the clinking of glasses, but all she could think about was the man in the back—the man who hadn't taken his eyes off her for the entire performance.

The roar of applause died down as Mae slipped off the stage, her heart still racing from the intensity of the performance. The usual thrill she felt after commanding the attention of the crowd wasn't there tonight. Instead, there was a strange hollowness, a sense that something wasn't right. As she made her way backstage, wiping the sweat from her brow, she found herself thinking about the man in the back of the room—the man who hadn't leered, who hadn't cheered, but had simply watched.

Father Charlie.

She hadn't seen him in years. The last time she had been near him, she was Seraphina, the girl who had quietly slipped away from her old life, leaving behind the village, the church, and the expectations that came with them. She had buried that part of herself so deep that she almost didn't recognize it when it tried to surface. But tonight, the sight of him had dug up memories she had thought she'd left behind forever.

Mae hurried into her dressing room, closing the door behind her. She leaned against the cool wood, her breath shallow as she tried to process what she had seen. Could it really be him? What would he be doing in a place like Hell's Angels? The village priest, a man who had devoted his life to God, sitting in the dark corners of an LA nightclub, watching a performance like this? It didn't make sense.

But it was him. She was sure of it.

Her pulse quickened at the thought of him sitting out there in the audience, so close but still oblivious to who she really was. A part of her wanted to stay hidden, to let him remain unaware, but another part of her, the part that had always sought answers, couldn't let it go.

She changed out of her costume and into a simple dress, something dark and discreet, not wanting to draw attention as she moved through the club. She couldn't shake the feeling that something deeper was going on. Why would Father Charlie come to a place like this? What was he searching for?

Mae left the dressing room, slipping back into the crowd. The atmosphere was the same as always—pulsing music, flashing lights, the murmur of conversations blending together in a chaotic symphony. But now, there was an edge to it all, a sense of unease that Mae couldn't shake.

She moved through the throngs of people, her eyes scanning the room for the familiar face. He hadn't left. She knew he wouldn't, not yet. As she neared the back of the club, she spotted him again—sitting in the same place, his glass half-full in front of him, his gaze distant as he stared into the amber liquid.

He looked different than she remembered. Older, more worn. His once dark hair had begun to darken at the edges, and the lines on his face had deepened. He looked like a man who had been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Mae wondered what had happened to him since she left. What could have pulled him away from the village and into the city, into this club?

She stopped a few feet away, her breath catching in her throat as she studied him. He didn't recognize her, not yet. To him, she was just another performer, another woman in a sea of faces. But she couldn't shake the feeling that he was here for a reason.

For a moment, she considered turning away, leaving him to his solitude. But curiosity gnawed at her. She needed to understand why he was here, what had brought him to this place. It wasn't like him, not the man she remembered.

As she watched, Father Charlie raised the glass to his lips, taking a slow sip before setting it back down. His expression was distant, thoughtful, as if he were somewhere far away, lost in his own world. Mae's chest tightened at the sight. This was not the man she had once known—the steady, unwavering figure who had been a pillar of strength in her life.

No, this was a man who had been broken by something, someone who had lost his way.

She took a tentative step closer, her heart pounding. She wasn't sure what she would say, wasn't even sure if she wanted to speak to him at all. But before she could make a decision, he looked up, his eyes sweeping the room briefly before landing on her.

For a moment, their gazes locked. Mae froze, her breath catching in her throat. His eyes, though clouded with exhaustion and something deeper, seemed to linger on her longer than they should have. She could see the flicker of recognition in his eyes, the brief moment of uncertainty, as if he was trying to place her but couldn't quite connect the dots.

But then, just as quickly, the moment passed. He looked away, his gaze returning to the glass in front of him, the brief spark of recognition fading.

Mae exhaled slowly, relief washing over her. He hadn't recognized her. Not yet.

She turned away, slipping back into the crowd, her mind racing. She wasn't sure what she had been expecting, but it wasn't this. Seeing him again had stirred something inside her, something she had tried to bury. The past wasn't as far behind her as she had thought, and now that Father Charlie was here, in her world, she knew it was only a matter of time before everything came crashing down.

But for now, he didn't know. He hadn't recognized her, and that gave her time—time to figure out what to do next, time to understand why he was here, time to prepare for the moment when their paths would inevitably cross again.

Mae slipped out of the main room and back into the shadows, her mind buzzing with unanswered questions. She needed to stay focused, to remember why she was here, why she had stayed. But Father Charlie's presence had shaken something loose, something she couldn't ignore.

She wasn't Seraphina anymore, but she couldn't deny that a part of her still lingered in the past.

As she retreated to the safety of her dressing room, the door closing softly behind her, Mae knew one thing for certain—this wasn't the last time she would see Father Charlie. Their paths had crossed again, and it wouldn't be long before the truth came out.

And when it did, nothing would ever be the same.

-

The following evening, Mae arrived at Hell's Angels earlier than usual. The club's neon sign flickered in the dark, casting a lurid glow over the alley where she entered. She felt a strange energy in the air, an electric hum that prickled at her skin. Yesterday had shaken her in ways she hadn't expected, but she had promised herself she wouldn't let it affect her. She had too much to focus on, too much at stake.

Father Charlie's unexpected presence had stirred something in her, memories of her past life colliding with the present. He hadn't recognized her, not yet, and that fact gave her a sense of both relief and unease. She wasn't Seraphina anymore. Mae had become someone else, someone tougher, harder, and more resilient. Yet, knowing he was there—so close—made it impossible to ignore the past.

As she prepared for her performance, Mae tried to push the thoughts away, focusing instead on the present, on the task at hand. She applied her makeup with mechanical precision, her reflection staring back at her with a fierce determination. Tonight needed to be flawless, like every other night, because Mae wasn't just performing for herself. She was being watched, always watched.

Mae had long since accepted that her life at Hell's Angels was no longer her own. The people behind the scenes, the shadowy figures who controlled the club, they owned her—at least, they thought they did. She had chosen to stay and fight, to dig into the truth behind the club's sinister underbelly, but that meant playing her part perfectly, staying under the radar while she gathered the information she needed.

Her phone buzzed on the vanity table, pulling her out of her thoughts. A message.

"We're watching. Don't disappoint."

Mae stared at the words, her chest tightening. The message was brief, cold, yet stomach churning. The club air was cool against her skin, but she barely felt it. She was too focused, her thoughts racing as she tried to make sense of everything that was happening. They were watching her closer than ever—that much she knew. But how closely? And for how long?

As much as Mae wanted to believe she could keep her head down, blend in, and continue gathering information unnoticed, she knew the truth. The people who controlled Hell's Angels were powerful, dangerous, and smart. If they even suspected she was trying to dig beneath the surface, they wouldn't hesitate to crush her.

Mae shut the door of her dressing room, letting the noise of the club fade into the background. The dull throb of the music was still audible, the bass vibrating through the floor, but here, in this small, dimly lit space, she could finally breathe.

Her reflection stared back at her from the vanity mirror—heavy makeup, glittering eyeshadow, and a layer of foundation that masked the exhaustion beneath. She wiped the sweat from her brow, reaching for a towel to dab at the sheen of perspiration clinging to her skin. Despite the routine of the performance, despite her years of practice, tonight had rattled her more than she cared to admit.

Father Charlie.

The name hung in the air, even though no one had spoken it. Just the thought of him being in the club, sitting among the shadows, watching her, had shaken her to her core. And yet, he hadn't recognized her. Or at least, not yet.

Mae stared at her reflection, her fingers tightening around the edge of the vanity. She had spent years burying Seraphina, crafting this new identity, hiding behind the mask of Mae. And now, in a twist of fate, he had wandered into her world, threatening to unravel everything she had built.

She had chosen this life, chosen to stay and fight, but seeing him had made the lines blur. For a moment, she had felt like Seraphina again, a girl who had once believed in something bigger than herself, someone who had looked to Father Charlie for guidance. But that girl was gone. Mae had made sure of it.

She dropped the towel onto the vanity and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. The faint scent of perfume and stage makeup filled the room, but it did little to calm the storm brewing inside her. What had brought him here? What could have possibly pulled him away from the quiet village and into the neon-lit chaos of Hell's Angels?

A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. Mae's eyes snapped open, her pulse quickening as she straightened in her chair.

"Who is it?" she called out, trying to steady her voice.

"It's Frank," came the familiar voice from the other side of the door.

Mae exhaled, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. She stood and opened the door, letting Frank into the small dressing room. His expression was tight, concern etched into the lines of his face.

"We need to talk," he said, his voice low, glancing around the room as if checking for any unwanted ears.

Mae stepped aside to let him in, closing the door behind him. Frank had always been her ally in this place, the one person she could trust. He managed the dancers, kept things running smoothly, and, for the most part, he looked out for her. But tonight, he looked more worried than usual.

"What's going on?" Mae asked, crossing her arms, leaning against the wall.

Frank's gaze shifted toward the vanity, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. "They're getting suspicious, Mae. The people running this place... they've noticed something's off."

Mae's heart skipped a beat. "Suspicious? Of what?"

Frank met her eyes, the weight of his words sinking in. "They think you're planning something. They're watching you closer than before."

Mae felt the blood drain from her face. She had been careful—so careful. She hadn't left any obvious clues, hadn't done anything that would raise alarms. But apparently, it hadn't been enough.

"What exactly do they know?" she asked, her voice steady despite the fear crawling up her spine.

Frank hesitated for a moment before speaking. "I don't know for sure. But they've been asking questions. They're monitoring your performances, your comings and goings. They don't trust you, Mae. Not anymore."

Mae's mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. She had been discreet, gathering information slowly, piece by piece, trying to figure out who was really pulling the strings behind Hell's Angels. But if they were onto her, if they even suspected she was digging into their secrets, things could get dangerous. Fast.

"They haven't said anything to me directly," Frank continued, his voice low, "but I've heard whispers. They're planning to keep a much closer eye on you."

Mae's chest tightened. This was worse than she had thought. She had known the risks, had known that digging too deep could put a target on her back, but she hadn't expected them to catch on so soon.

"What do I do?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Frank sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Lay low for a while. Don't do anything out of the ordinary. Just perform, keep your head down, and act like everything's fine. They're watching for any sign that you're not playing by their rules. You can't afford to slip up."

Mae nodded, though the weight of his words settled heavily on her. Laying low wasn't an option. She couldn't stop now. She had come too far to back down. But she couldn't let them know that.

"And Mae..." Frank's voice softened, and she could see the concern in his eyes. "That guy. The one from last night... stay away from him."

Mae froze, her heart skipping a beat. "What do you mean?"

"I saw the way you looked at him. I don't know who he is, but he's not from around here. You don't need more attention. Not from anyone." Frank's voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. "It's going to be trouble. Don't get involved with him."

Mae's stomach twisted. He didn't know who Father Charlie was. He didn't understand the complicated history between them, or what seeing him again had done to her. But Frank was right—she couldn't afford distractions. Not now.

She nodded, her expression neutral. "I'll be careful."

Frank sighed, clearly not satisfied but knowing there was nothing more he could say. "Just... watch your back, Mae. This place isn't safe. It never has been."

With that, he turned and left the room, leaving Mae alone once again.

She sat back down at the vanity, her reflection staring back at her, the weight of the night pressing down on her shoulders. The people behind Hell's Angels were watching her. Father Charlie had resurfaced. And now, more than ever, she felt like she was walking a tightrope, balancing between the life she had built and the past she had tried to forget.

Mae clenched her fists, her determination hardening. She wouldn't let them win. She wouldn't let anyone control her. Not the people behind the club, not the ghosts of her past.

But the path ahead was getting darker, more dangerous. And Mae knew she had to be ready for whatever came next.

As she looked into the mirror, her reflection seemed to blur, the lines between Mae and Seraphina blurring with it. But one thing remained clear: she couldn't stop now. Not when the stakes were this high.

She had chosen to fight. And fight she would.

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