In the bustling city of St. Anderson, Denim Rose Martin is determined to leave her troubled past behind. After a riotous upbringing marked by an unloving mother, she finds herself entangled in a relationship with a charming yet unpredictable man. Just as she begins to break free from his grasp, unsettling truths emerge, hinting at a darker, much more powerful force at play. Draco, a striking kingpin from Mississippi, whose presence sends shivers down Denim's spine. Their unexpected encounter ignites a spark that neither can ignore, but with a mysterious past and secrets lurking around every corner, can they truly trust one another? As Denim struggles with her heart's desires and the shadows of her past, she realizes that the path to freedom may be fraught with danger. With every decision, the stakes rise, and the lines between love and manipulation blur. 

In this suspenseful standalone novel, Denim must confront forces beyond her understanding, leading her to question everything she thought she knew about love, loyalty, and the price of freedom. Will she find the strength to uncover the truth, or will the darkness consume her before she can escape? Dive into a world where magic intertwines with reality, and every twist leaves you yearning for more. 

Chapter 1

Denim Rose

Present Day

The dimly lit hallway stretched before me like a winding tunnel into another world, its faded red carpet muffling my steps as I headed back toward the private dressing rooms reserved for the showgirls—as Moe always insisted on calling us. The air was thick with the scent of stale perfume, sweat, and ambition, a cocktail I had grown far too used to. The heavy bass of the music that once pulsed through the club’s main room had now faded into a low, distant thump, like a heartbeat echoing through walls that had seen too much.

Moe swore up and down that calling us "strippers" was disrespectful, degrading to our womanhood—as if his poetic rebrand made the grind any softer. He insisted we were artists, showgirls, dancers, seductresses. Whatever helped him sleep at night. All that shit? It didn’t matter to me. I knew what I signed up for the second I strutted through those mirrored doors and past the velvet ropes. I didn’t need romanticism; I needed a paycheck.

But tonight? Tonight, I was ready to take my ass home.

A tight knot twisted low in my belly, a silent alarm going off in the pit of my stomach. Nas. I already knew he was going to be on some fuck shit. The kind of energy he’d been giving me since I visited home two weeks ago was cold, calculated, and distant. There was a blankness in his stare lately, like when I looked at him, nobody was really in there. He'd gone hollow. The love—or whatever had once glued us together—had cracked. I didn’t know exactly where things had gone wrong between us, but I was ready for all of it to end. I was tired of shouldering everyone’s baggage—his included. Especially his.

I finally reached the heavy back door that separated the dressing rooms from the chaos of the main floor. Its metal frame was cool to the touch, and it creaked with reluctant effort as I pushed it open, revealing a haze of body spray, sweat, and flickering vanity bulbs.

"Razzle!" I called out, my voice echoing off the tiled walls, "Your set is coming up in a few. Moe wants you next to the stage now."

Razzle—real name Razi—was Moe’s ride-or-die, his prized show pony. Honestly, she was probably two years away from running this place, but Moe wasn’t about to hand over the reins just yet. He expressed she was "too emotional" and didn’t want her "getting the big head." Typical Moe. Keep 'em close, but never too close.

"Tell that nigga to hold on. I’m having a damn wardrobe malfunction!" Razzle hollered back from behind a thin dressing curtain, her voice raspy and impatient. I rolled my eyes.

"Girl, you go tell him that. I’m not about to get caught in y’all mess. I just work here," I muttered, plopping into my usual seat at the battered vanity lined with cracked mirrors and fingerprints from a thousand nights before. The chair groaned under me, familiar and worn.

Tonight, I was the headliner at Moe’s FantasyLand—a title that came with both bragging rights and a target on my back. The crowd was thick tonight; I could feel it in the way the walls vibrated, in the way the energy buzzed faintly against my skin. Folks had shown up for a show, and I was the main attraction.

This wasn’t my last dance, but people in the club were starting to sense the countdown. My glow was changing. I had outgrown this place. I could feel it every time I stood under those stage lights—the pull toward something more. Bigger. Brighter. Free. It was time to move on, to spread my wings and rise out of this world I had once leaned on to survive.

Moe’s FantasyLand would always hold a complicated piece of my heart. When I walked through those doors at seventeen, lost and desperate, it was the only place that gave me a chance. I needed money. I needed stability. I needed a roof over Shasta’s and I’s head and food on our plates. Moe might’ve been a dog, but in his own crooked way, he looked out for me. Even when he didn’t say it. Even when it came wrapped in sleaze and control.

The familiar buzz of my phone pulled me out of my head. I looked down at the vanity, the soft glow of the screen lighting up with Nas’s name. My lip curled.

He knew I was working. He always knew. Still, I sent the call to voicemail. I wasn’t in the mood for whatever storm he was blowing in on.

Then the phone lit up again—Nas.

My heart tensed in my chest, irritation simmering beneath my ribs. I should’ve never gone back. Should’ve left him in the past where he belonged, but old habits had a way of seducing you back into their chaos.

I let out a long, tired sigh as I dragged my finger across the screen, my skin sticking slightly from the heat and the faint layer of glitter clinging to my fingertips. The call connected with a soft click.

"Hello?" I spoke, my voice low and flat, heavy with exhaustion I didn’t care to disguise.

"Nas, what do you need?" I bit out, my tone sharp and uninviting, all patience drained.

"Hoe, don’t talk to me like that," he snapped, mocking, already revving up. "You know how I get down. When you getting off from that dusty-ass, hole-in-the-wall club you shake yo ass in?"

I clenched my jaw so tight I felt my molars grind. "Nigga, fuck you," I growled, voice tight, simmering. "You wasn’t saying none of that shit when you was blowing my money from this ‘hole in the wall.’ You lil’ broke-ass boy. Now either say what you called for, or shut the fuck up. I ain’t got time."

"Oh, now you too good for a nigga? That’s crazy," he spat, his voice spiking with that familiar resentment. "Back when I was up, you had everything. Everything. Don’t forget."

I imagined the spit flying from his mouth, each word soaked with that sour ego. He means you no good. The psychic’s voice came back like a whisper riding a chill straight down my spine.

I shivered.

My hand went to the back my neck, fingers digging beneath the layers of foundation caked over the rash that’d been flaring up for days. It itched like hell now. My eyes darted around the room, paranoia prickling along my scalp. No one. Just me.

Razzle must’ve dipped already. Her anthem thumped lowly against the walls from the stage — the bass heavy enough to rattle the bulbs lining the vanity mirror. My reflection looked off. Pale. Shaky. Off-balance, even. 

I pushed up from the bench, my knees stiff. Heading toward the dressing room door, I tried to focus on the ridiculous wallpaper Moe picked out — dollar signs and fake diamonds exploding across the wall in bright green and gold. But the longer I stared, the more they seemed to move. Squirm. I blinked. The patterns warped and slithered like something alive.

A wave of nausea rolled through me.

Nas was still ranting, voice slipping into something almost rhythmic — too fast, too jumbled. His words stopped sounding like language and more like a dark prayer, like some twisted chant pulled from the gutter. I pressed a hand to my stomach.

What the fuck is happening?

"Nas," I declared, louder, clearer, trying to cut through the noise in my head and his mouth. "I gotta go make this money, bro. Did you call for something or just to remind me how bitter you are?"

I glanced at the phone, my thumb twitching, ready to hang up. My nerves were crackling under my skin, crawling like ants. He means you no good. The voice again, faint this time — but steady.

My breath hitched.

"Whatever," he finally muttered, his voice hard now. "I won’t be home when you get there. Put my food up if you cook. And don’t go in my game room, Denim. Don’t touch nothing."

The line went dead.

I stood there for a second, still holding the phone to my ear like I was waiting for it to burn.

If I’d known what that day would turn into… I’d have left him right where I found him — slick-talking in the dark corner of that club, with all his poison wrapped in charm.