Page 9 of Wells

But I wasn't going to do that to her, no matter how badly things ended.

I paid her, let the attorneys wrap the whole thing in paper, and watched her walk away with a number large enough to make her silence feel like a purchase instead of mercy.

That was the lesson that stayed, though if I'm honest, she only put a price tag on something I already believed. I learned a long time before her that letting a person all the way in is just handing them the map to where you're softest, and the people who get that map always, eventually, use it. So I stopped handing it out. The armor isn't a mood I'm in. It's the only thing that has ever kept me whole.

The moment someone learns the name and the money behind it, I stop being a person and become leverage. I never catch it until the bill lands. So I'm putting my focus on work now and taking a break from dating.

That's how I ended up on OnlyFans. No names, no access, and no soft places someone can press later and call it love.

My hand moves to the touchpad, finger hovering over the close command, and then stops. I pull it back. Reach for the cigarette instead and take a final drag before stubbing it out.

Outside, Bourbon Street is winding down. The noise has thinned to scattered voices and the occasional rumble of a passing car. It's late enough that even the city is considering rest.

I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. Her voice is still there, low and warm and threaded through with humor.

Along the far wall, the Stone feeds run on in the dark, the whole machinery of who I actually am, every part of me she will never get near.

THREE

Cera

The Loup: A loup is the small black half-mask that covers only the eyes, leaving the mouth and the truest part of an expression bare. It hides just enough to feel safe while letting the most honest thing slip through.

I hold warrior two until my thighs shake, hips open to the side, front knee bent deep over the ankle, arms reaching long in both directions. The instructor's voice floats across the studio like background noise.

I don't need it anymore. My body knows the sequence.

Sweat slides down my spine and pools at the small of my back. Sandalwood and lavender hang in the air, and the heaters hold the room at a savage hundred and ten. Morning light filters through the tall windows and cuts gold bars across the room.

Twenty mats, twenty bodies breathing in rhythm.

I shift into reverse warrior, arm arcing overhead. My brown hair falls loosely over one shoulder. The beauty mark above my lip catches my attention when I glimpse my reflection in the far mirror. It's my real face, my real body, no mask, no platinum wig, no blue contacts turning my eyes into something they aren't.

My breath hitches, and I force it smooth again. Inhale four counts. Exhale four counts. The instructor calls triangle pose, and I hinge at the hip, one hand reaching toward my ankle, the other extending toward the ceiling. My ribs stretch and my hamstring burns.

Rent is due in six days.

I push the thought away and focus on my hand, fingers spread wide against the worn surface of the mat. The rubber is sticky under my palm. My belly button ring catches the light when my shirt rides up.

The callback hasn't come yet. Midnight's money means rent isn't the emergency it used to be, but I still need a real job, a steady paycheck, something I can build on.

I breathe into the pose and let my ribs expand. The woman next to me wobbles, and her foot slides on the mat. She catches herself and resets. I stay locked in place, muscles trembling but holding.

Yoga is the one thing I won't give up. Not for rent, not for bills, not for the stupid cost of staying alive in a city that was never cheap. This is mine: this mat, this breath, this body that still remembers what it feels like to be strong rather than scrambling.

The instructor calls child's pose, and I sink back onto my heels, forehead resting on the mat. My heart pounds against my ribs.

Class ends with savasana, and I lie flat on my back, arms at my sides, palms open toward the ceiling. My body melts into the mat. The worry stays hooked around my neck, like a cape I can't remove, waiting.

Namaste.

I grab my mat and water bottle, sling my bag over one shoulder, and head for the door. My legs are loose and warm, even though my mind is still tied in knots.

When I push out of the room, a whoosh of cold air invigorates me. The temperature change from the hot yoga room to normal air takes my breath away. It's one of the things I love about doing an hour session at least once a week.

I wipe my face with the cold lavender towel I grab out of the bin just outside the door. I'm meeting Locke in twenty minutes, so this will have to do in lieu of a full shower.

The café smells like cold-press espresso and wheatgrass. I slide into the booth across from Locke and drop my mat bag on the bench beside me. He's tanned from three weeks in Rishikesh, his hair longer than when he left. He watches me come in over the rim of his green juice like he's been waiting all morning for an audience.