Beauty and the Devil

chapter 11

Samantha’s POV

Clyde had opinions about everything—down to the color of my lipstick. That morning, he handed me a pale pink tube and told me it matched the image. Innocent, approachable, expensive. He said it like it was branding, not personality.

He picked out all my outfits now. Always tight. Always short. Lace, silk, vinyl—nothing in between. On stage, I wasn’t allowed to improvise anymore. My sets were choreographed, down to where I placed my hands.

He watched every show. Not from the crowd, but from the VIP booth, usually with a drink in one hand and Aaron in the other chair. His expression never changed. No nods. No smiles. Just corrections later.

“You looked bored tonight,” he said last time.

“I wasn’t.”

“Then you better work on your face.”

Sometimes he gave instructions like they were facts. Sometimes he made them cruel on purpose.

“If you want to see your brother, you’ll have to try spreading your legs more. Make them think they’re getting something they’re not.”

I froze. He didn’t even look up from his phone.

I didn’t know what made me angrier—what he said, or how easily he said it.

Aaron was different. He wasn’t around as much, but when he was, he noticed things. Like how I stopped eating between sets. Like how my hands shook when I was reapplying mascara.

“Hey,” he said once, handing me a protein bar. “You’ll faint if you keep skipping meals.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

We sat in the hallway behind the dressing rooms. The carpet was too plush for a place like this. His jacket smelled like clean laundry. His hair was always a little messy, like he ran his hands through it too much.

“I know that look,” he said. “Like your brain’s running five seconds behind your body.”

I gave a weak smile. “That obvious?”

“You remind me of someone I knew,” he added, sitting down beside me.

“Who?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the dressing room floor like it held the answer.

“My dad used to throw glasses when he got mad,” he said. “My mother learned how to flinch before they even hit the wall. It’s like she could sense the tension in the air before it broke.”

I looked at him, surprised. “You’ve never told me that.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t mean to. You just looked like her. Right now. Quiet, but bracing.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. Just nodded. Aaron took a breath.

“I’ve always wanted a normal life,” he added. “A real family. Nothing complicated.”

“Have you found that?”

He hesitated. “Once.”

I waited, but he didn’t say more. When I glanced up, his eyes looked glassy. I reached out and hugged him. He held on a little longer than I expected.

That night, after my second set, Aaron pulled me aside.

“Michael’s safe,” he said. “Clyde has him in a house outside the city. He’s not on the street anymore.”

I blinked. “What?”

“He didn’t want you to know. Thought it would... affect your performance.”

I stared at the floor, trying to hold back a thousand things I wanted to scream.

Aaron touched my arm gently. “I can pass a message to him. If you want.”

I nodded. “Yes. Please.”

***

The next night, someone in the crowd grabbed me. I remember because the crowd was bigger than usual, half the booths were reserved, and I was wearing a metallic gold two-piece that rode up no matter how carefully I adjusted it.

It was during my second set—slow track, spotlight directly on me, no pole this time. Just floorwork. I knew I was doing well. The front row was full, and their attention didn’t drift.

But as I stepped downstage for the final sequence, one man stood. Tall. Bald. Designer suit, half-unbuttoned.

He moved toward the stage like it was natural. Security didn’t flinch.

He caught my wrist before I could step back.

“Dance up close,” he said, dragging me toward him.

“No,” I said. “That’s not—”

He yanked me closer. I stumbled.

His hands went straight to my waist. Then lower. He pulled me down into his lap before I could react.

The crowd cheered. Not loud. But enough. The ones watching didn’t think it was wrong—they thought it was part of the show.

I tried to stand. He shoved me back down, one hand squeezing my thigh hard enough to leave a bruise.

“You’re here to be touched, aren’t you?” he hissed, breath thick with alcohol. “That’s what you’re for.”

I froze.

And then everything stopped.

Clyde was there.

He grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him backward so hard the chair tipped. The man landed on the floor with a dull thud. His drink spilled. His jacket twisted.

Clyde didn’t say a word. Just dragged him by the neck through the crowd. The music still played. No one else moved.

Ten minutes later, I was in the dressing room, still in costume, when the door opened.

Clyde stepped in like nothing had happened. No blood. No raised voice. Just the same unbothered expression he always wore.

“He won’t come back,” he said, eyes on the mirror behind me. “And if anyone else lays a hand on you without your permission, you tell me. Right away.”

I nodded once. My hands were still shaking.

He stepped forward and dropped my coat onto the counter.

“You’re done for the night,” he said. “Get in the car.”

I followed him through the back hallway. No one else was around. No music. Just the sound of our shoes on polished tile.

He drove in silence. The city lights washed over the windshield in clean, even patterns. When we got to the house, he pulled up to the door and left the engine running.

“You live under my roof,” he said finally, eyes still on the road. “No one touches what’s mine.”