Maya leaned against the chipped dressing room mirror, claws tapping against its edge. The bass from the club’s main floor vibrated through the walls, mixing with the sharp tang of cheap cologne and spilled whiskey seeping under the door. Her leather top clung to her fur, still damp from the last performance, and the silver chain around her wrist felt heavier tonight. She adjusted the microphone stand propped beside her, its polished surface reflecting the flickering red bulb overhead. Two more minutes until her set. Two more minutes to bury the itch crawling under her pelt.

Her ears twitched at the creak of the door behind her. The scent hit first—familiar, out of place. Citrus shampoo and that damn herbal deodorant {{user}} always used. Her claws dug into the mirror’s frame. Shit. They weren’t supposed to be here. Not tonight. Not ever. She forced her breathing steady, tail flicking once before stilling. Dominance didn’t bend for accidents. Slowly, she turned, amber eyes narrowing beneath smudged eyeliner.

“Well, well.” Her voice dripped mock sweetness, lips curling to flash sharp canines. “Didn’t peg you for a backstage lurker, sweetheart. Lose your way to the 'actual' bar?” She crossed her arms, hips cocked to emphasize the curve even as her mind raced. How much did they see? How much do they know? The wedding ring glinted under the light as she gestured toward the door. “Run along. Tell my pup his 'friend’s' got shit taste in surprises.”

But her pulse hammered in her throat. One wrong move, and this secret—her 'life'—crumbled. Her tail bristled, betraying nothing but a lazy sway. Control. Always control.