The day began like any other for Allie — with discipline, calm, and movement.
She woke before sunrise, rolling out her yoga mat as soft light crept through her apartment's glass balcony doors. The city outside was slowly coming to life — faint hum of traffic, birds chirping somewhere between the high-rises.
An hour of barre and hot yoga later, her muscles burned pleasantly, her thoughts clear. She threw her hair into a loose bun, made herself a green smoothie, and stood by the window sipping it slowly, looking out at the pale blush of spring sky.
Tokyo in spring was a painting come alive — the air fragrant with cherry blossoms, petals floating through the breeze like pink snow. It was her favorite time of year. Everything smelled like a new beginning.
By the time she reached Rouge, the city's magic had been replaced by focus.
The moment she walked through the double doors, her posture straightened, her eyes sharpened. The warm light of the club hit the silver strands of her hair tie. It was Burlesque Cabaret Night — one of their biggest events — and Allie had no room for error. She moved with purpose, clipboard in hand, the quiet storm of efficiency.
She checked deliveries at the back entrance, counted crates of champagne and imported wines, double-checked the seafood orders. She oversaw the plating in the kitchen, inspected the glassware for chips, directed the bar staff on presentation.
"Change the garnish on the gin cocktail," she told one of the mixologists.
"Something brighter — maybe a citrus twist."
"Yes, ma'am."
She walked the entire floor — adjusting table spacing, giving quick notes on lighting angles, fixing a centerpiece with her own hands when it wasn't sitting right.
To the outside world, Rouge was a haven of elegance and indulgence. To Allie, it was a living organism — one she kept breathing and beating night after night.
By evening, the team was assembled in the staff lounge for briefing. She stood at the center, poised, black midi dress hugging her curves but leaving no question of authority. Mid-height stilettos. Diamond studs. Her hair in a sleek bun, a single loose strand framing her face.
"Tonight's VIP list includes international investors and a few government guests," she said, scanning the room. "Hospitality team, you're their shadows. No mistakes, no delays. Kitchen — you're flawless as always. Let's make it another perfect night."
Her team nodded, their respect for her evident in the silence.It was why she was Rouge's general manager.
And it was also why, when something went wrong, everyone came to her.
"Allie!" Cindy, one of the hostesses, came rushing toward her. "We've got a problem — Marie's sick. She's staying home."
Allie's first instinct wasn't frustration. "Is she all right? Did someone check on her?"
Cindy nodded. "She's fine — just exhausted. But we need someone to fill in. It's cabaret night."
Allie frowned, calculating. It was too late to find a replacement. She called Jessica, a retired hostess who had since married rich and moved on, asking if she knew anyone reliable.
Jessica laughed. "You've watched us perform a hundred times, babe. Just do it yourself. You can't be tabled anyway, and you already know the routine."
"Jess, no way—"
But as she hung up, the clock ticked closer to showtime. There was no one else.
So she made a decision. For the sake of the show — and the club — she'd do it. Just once. Backstage was chaos and glitter. Girls in sequins and feathers adjusted makeup, laughter and perfume filling the air.
Allie slipped into the spare costume Marie was supposed to wear — a shimmering black bodysuit with sheer gloves and feathered accents. It hugged her frame perfectly, a dangerous mix of elegance and allure.
The room went quiet when she stepped out of the changing stall.
"Whoa," one of the girls breathed.
"Boss lady, you've been hiding that body from us?"
Allie laughed, cheeks warming. "I'm filling in, not stealing your spotlight. Now let's make this work."
Despite her nerves, she kept multitasking — checking her phone for kitchen updates, reviewing the VIP arrivals, coordinating timing with the lighting crew — all while rehearsing the choreography in her head.
When the lights dimmed and the curtains rose, she took one deep breath.
You've got this, she whispered to herself.
The music began — sultry, rhythmic, alive.
She stepped into the spotlight.
Applause echoed through the room as she moved across the stage with practiced poise — graceful turns, confident shimmies, the soft toss of a feathered fan. Her heartbeat synced with the rhythm, and for a moment, she forgot everything else.
She didn't look at the crowd. She couldn't. Not tonight. Her focus was on every step, every cue.
Still, she could feel it — eyes on her, burning and intent. Someone was watching her too closely. She ignored the tingle crawling up her spine and finished her set flawlessly, smiling as the music faded. Back in the dressing room, the girls cheered and hugged her.
"Allie, you killed it!"
"You should perform more often!"
She laughed it off, quickly changing into her black dress again. "Once is enough. Now go greet your guests."
After congratulating the performers, she slipped back into her managerial rhythm — checking the VIP section, resolving a billing issue, giving a gentle reminder to the security team to rotate positions.
The night was smooth. But a strange unease followed her, like something just slightly out of place.
Then the bartender found her. "Boss, sorry — we've got a situation. A guest at the bar's being difficult. The assistant manager's trying, but… he's persistent."
Allie nodded, already moving. "Let me handle it."
She grabbed her clipboard, touched up her lipstick in a small compact mirror, and strode toward the bar. From behind, the man looked out of place. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed too casually for Rouge — a rumpled cotton shirt, dark jeans, travel bag slung at his feet. His hair was a little disheveled, like he'd just come off a plane.
She frowned. How did security let him in like that?
"Good evening, sir," she began politely, keeping her professional smile. "Is everything all right? My staff said you needed assistance."
He didn't answer right away.
"All right," she continued, scanning her clipboard. "Before we begin, I just need to remind you of our dress policy and—"
He turned around.
Her words caught in her throat.
Her smile froze.
For a second, her knees nearly gave out.
Because standing in front of her — looking exhausted, travel-worn, but unmistakably him — was Curtis Harper.
Her Kit.
Her heart lurched violently against her chest. It couldn't be.
But it was.
The man she'd loved and lost — the one she had tried to forget every single day for the past year and a half — was standing at her bar in Tokyo, looking at her with those same quiet, aching eyes.
For a moment, the noise of the club disappeared — no music, no chatter, no clinking glasses — just the sound of her heartbeat thundering in her ears.
The clipboard in her hand trembled.
She wanted to say his name, but her lips wouldn't move.
He didn't speak either. He just stood there, gazing at her like he couldn't believe she was real.
And for the first time in so long — Allie felt the world stop.