"Tu danses comme si tu voulais disparaître."
You dance like you want to disappear.
— unknown note found in Chloe's dressing room
New York City — 2:47 AM
The club was illegal. The dancers were forbidden. And Chloe Moreau was the ghost everyone paid to see.
She stood center stage, barefoot, in a torn white leotard that hugged her like a secret. Her ribs were too visible. Her eyes, too hollow. But when the music played, she moved like divinity fallen to earth—aching, fractured, alive.
Alexander Wu watched from the shadows. He didn't blink. Not once.
The scent of smoke and vodka lingered in the private lounge, but none of it reached him. He was dressed in black—no tie, no warmth, no mercy. His glass of whiskey remained untouched. He wasn't here for pleasure.
He was here for her.
She spun again, arms raised, eyes closed. Her scars—thin lines on her wrist, old and new—flashed under the spotlight. She didn't hide them. That was the most dangerous part.
She didn't care if anyone saw.
"Who is she?"
Alexander's voice was quiet, cold. His bodyguard stiffened beside him.
"No one. A dancer. French-American, name's Chloe. Doesn't talk much. Performs once a week—cash only, no contracts."
"She's not no one." His jaw tightened. "She's mine."
Backstage
Chloe peeled the white fabric from her skin, wincing as the sweat clung to old bruises. The makeup around her eyes had smudged down to her cheekbones—she looked like a broken porcelain doll. She reached for her sleeves, tugging them quickly over her wrists.
She didn't cry. She hadn't cried in years.
But then someone knocked.
A deep, slow knock. Deliberate.
She froze.
The door creaked open before she could speak.
A man stepped inside—black hair, sharp eyes, stillness that vibrated with danger. He didn't ask permission. He didn't need to.
"You dance like you want to die."
His voice was smooth. American. Mandarin-accented.
She blinked. Said nothing.
He stepped closer. Her breath caught.
"你叫什么名字?"
(What's your name?)
Chloe's lips parted. A tremble in her voice:
"Je… je m'appelle Chloe."
His eyes darkened.
"French. Of course."
"Chloe," he repeated, like it hurt to say her name.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded slip of paper.
"This is your last night here."
"Excuse me?" Her first words came out cracked.
"I bought the club."
"You… what?"
"You dance for no one else now."
She stared at him. Heart pounding.
"Who are you?"
His eyes pinned her to the floor.
"Alexander Wu."
End of Chapter One