When I Stole Your Face

Willow's POV

The golden Los Angeles sunset painted the downtown skyline as I weaved through traffic on my Western motorcycle which was modified from old ones. The flame-painted gas tank caught the fading light, making it look like my bike was on fire—just the way I liked it. I'd spent three months salvaging parts and repainting this old beauty myself, and despite everything else falling apart in my life, this motorcycle remained my one true freedom.

Stuck at another red light on Sunset Boulevard, I impatiently tapped my fingers against the handlebars. The black crab jacket creaked as I shifted my weight, checking the time on my phone. 7:43 PM. Almost late. Kenny would definitely use this as an excuse to cut my performance time.

"Come on, come on," I muttered under my breath, revving the engine just enough to make the car in front of me nervous. The driver glanced in his rearview mirror, and I flashed him a smile behind my smoky eye makeup, carefully applied to transform plain Willow Clark into someone unrecognizable from a certain other face in this city.

When the light finally turned green, I shot forward, splitting lanes with practiced precision. The wind whipped through my hair as I accelerated, enjoying the brief sensation of leaving my problems behind.

The neon sign of Sunset Strip Lounge flickered in the growing darkness as I pulled into the back lot. Mike, the bouncer, gave me a nod as I wheeled my bike into its usual spot.

"Cutting it close tonight, Wildfire," he called out, checking his watch.

"Traffic was a bitch," I shouted back, pulling off my helmet and shaking out my hair. "Kenny in yet?"

"Manager Marco's been asking for you. Better hurry."

I rushed through the back entrance, waving to Carlos behind the bar as I made my way to the dressing room.

"You're on in ten!" she called after me.

"I know, I know!" I yelled back, already pulling off my jacket.

The dressing room was empty—the other dancers already on the floor. I quickly stripped down and slipped into my performance outfit—a shimmering red and gold ensemble that had earned me my stage name. The makeup mirror reflected a woman I barely recognized—heavily lined eyes, contoured cheekbones, and deep red lips. Perfect. "No one would ever connect this face to the cashier who scanned groceries at ValueMart during the day, or worse, to another more recognizable face in Los Angeles."

Five minutes later, I was stretching by the side of the stage, the bass from the speakers thumping through my body. Kenny shot me a warning look from across the room, but I just winked at him. The crowd was already getting rowdy, and I could hear them calling my stage name.

"Wildfire! Wildfire!"

When the current song ended, the lights dimmed. That was my cue. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and stepped onto the stage.

The moment the spotlight hit me, I became someone else—someone without medical bills to pay or parents in the hospital. For three minutes and twenty-seven seconds, I was Wildfire—untamed, unstoppable, desired.

I moved across the stage with practiced confidence, my body flowing with the rhythm as if the music controlled me. Every twist, every turn, every provocative move earned bills tossed onto the stage. Each dollar meant food on the table, rent paid, medicine for my parents.

The crowd roared when I finished my final move—a signature backbend that had taken months to perfect. As I stood up, collecting the scattered bills, a familiar voice boomed through the speakers.

"Give it up for Wildfire, burning down the house tonight!"

Beckett Wilder grabbed the mic, his messy dreadlocks bouncing as he jumped onto the stage. Without missing a beat, he launched into an impromptu rap.

"Wildfire on stage, lighting up the night, her flames never die, burning oh so bright..."

I couldn't help but smile as I exited the stage. Beck had been a regular for months before we actually spoke, and now he was practically a friend—as close to one as I allowed myself these days.

"That was fire, as always," he said, meeting me at the bar after his little performance. He handed me a glass of lemon water—he'd noticed early on I never drank alcohol during work.

"Thanks for the hype," I said, gulping down the water. "The crowd was good tonight."

"They come for you, you know. You're the real deal." He leaned against the bar, his eyes following the next dancer taking the stage. "When are you gonna come by my studio? I've got some tracks that need a visual element. You could make some serious cash."

I shook my head. "No time, Beck. Two jobs are already killing me."

"All work and no play makes Willow a dull girl," he teased.

"All work and barely any pay makes Willow need to get back on stage," I countered, setting down my empty glass. "Maybe another time."

It was past 2 AM when I finally headed home, my tips secured in a hidden compartment of my motorcycle. The night air had turned cold, cutting through my jacket as I rode through the empty streets. My muscles ached from dancing, and my mind raced with calculations—rent due in a week, hospital bill payment on Tuesday, groceries somehow in between.

Thomas and Maria weren't my biological parents, but they were the only real parents I'd ever known. Three months ago, Thomas had been buried in a sudden mudslide disaster and remained in a coma after being rescued; while Maria, exhausted from caring for the family and her ailing husband, eventually fell ill herself and was also hospitalized. My already tight budget had stretched to breaking point. The doctors were still running tests, but treatments didn't wait for diagnoses, and neither did the bills.

Meanwhile, my biological sister—my identical twin—was living it up as Los Angeles' darling socialite. I'd seen her face on enough magazine covers and billboards to last a lifetime. Same face, different worlds. I had to wear heavy makeup every day just to avoid people seeing a "budget version of LA's sweetheart" walking around.

The irony wasn't lost on me. One twin abandoned, one twin cherished. One struggling to survive, one planning galas. The Sinclair family had kept her and discarded me, and that was that.

My thoughts were interrupted by a strange sound as I took the shortcut along the Los Angeles River. I slowed down, the rumble of my engine quieting enough for me to hear what sounded like... a cry for help?

I frowned, turning my head toward the dark water. The sound came again—definitely a human voice.

"Hello?" I called out, stopping my bike and turning the headlight toward the river.

That's when I saw it—the unmistakable shape of a person thrashing in the water.

"Shit," I whispered, my hand hovering over the ignition. Part of me wanted to keep going—I was exhausted, it was late, and I had to be at the supermarket in five hours. But another part of me...

I kicked down the stand and turned off the engine.