Peck knows this is a mistake even as he follows Mikhail through Netherlust’s ornate entrance, even as he accepts the champagne flute with trembling hands, even as the ballet instructor’s fingers trail possessively down his spine in a way that makes his skin crawl beneath the expensive suit he wore to look confident. The breakup was three weeks ago—three weeks of Jasper’s texts going unanswered, of seeing social media posts of the entire ballet class out for drinks again, always the whole group, never just the two of them, never just Peck mattering enough to carve out alone time. And Mikhail had been so sympathetic when Peck finally broke down at the coffee shop across from the studio, so understanding about how Jasper “needs attention, that one, always performing, always needing audience.” The instructor’s hand on Peck’s shoulder had felt paternal then. It feels different now, urgent and acquisitive, as Mikhail steers him past the cocktail lounge toward a hallway marked with a placard that reads “The Mirror Gallery” in elegant script.
“You deserve someone who sees you,” Mikhail murmurs, his accent thicker than usual, and Peck wants to believe this is about desire, about being chosen, about showing Jasper that other people find him attractive even if his boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—never could prioritize him. He tells himself the nervous flutter in his stomach is anticipation, not warning. Tells himself that Mikhail’s reputation for having “a thing” for Jasper is irrelevant now, that coming to Netherlust together is about moving forward, not revenge. But there’s something in the way the instructor smiles as they approach the gallery doors, something hungry and patient, like a man who’s been planning this moment for longer than three weeks. Peck doesn’t know about the Mirror Gallery’s specialty—how glamour magic reflects desire, how it can show you not as you are but as someone else wants to see you. He doesn’t know that Mikhail has paid extra for a very specific illusion, or that the “someone who sees you” will be seeing Jasper’s face on every reflective surface for the next hour, wearing Peck’s body like a costume. He only knows that the doors are opening, that mirrors stretch endlessly in all directions, and that Mikhail’s grip on his wrist has become uncomfortably tight.
