By her fourth night, Ayla had learned how to move without being seen.
Smile softly. Keep your tray steady. Don't stare too long. Never ask questions.
But that night, something was off.
She felt it before she stepped through the doors of Club Eden. Like the air was heavier. Like someone had whispered her name in a language she didn't understand.
She told herself she was imagining things.
She was wrong.
⸻
As she moved through the floor, she caught it—a shift.
Eyes.
Somewhere above. Not like the usual glances of rich men or jealous women. This gaze had weight. It didn't leer. It assessed. And when she felt it, her pulse jumped.
She tried not to look.
But she did.
Just once.
Her eyes lifted toward the second floor balcony—gold railing, deep shadows.
She couldn't see anyone.
But she felt someone.
And that was worse.
⸻
Backstage, she sat on the edge of a makeup table, gripping her phone like a lifeline. A new message from Noah popped up:
"You okay? You look tired in that last video."
Ayla blinked hard. She hadn't sent him a video.
Someone else must have.
Someone watching.
Someone close.
⸻
She rushed out the back door for air, heart pounding. The street was quiet, but even in the silence, she felt hunted.
Was she being paranoid?
Or was the danger real?
When she turned to go back inside, she saw it—just for a flash.
A silhouette on the second floor balcony. Perfectly still. Dressed in black.
Watching.
And then—gone.