The commotion outside his dressing room was fucking hard to ignore, but Staffan did his best – until he realized it wasn’t Saffi causing it but someone he wanted to beat into a bloody pulp. “Fuck you, Staffan Aehrenthal, come out and face me like a man!” It was the goddamn prick. Alan Carson. The man who took his Saffi away. He managed a smile for the girl he had taken to his dressing room, whose name he had already forgotten and whose touch still left a bitter taste in his mouth. “I’m afraid there’s trouble outside. Would you do me a favor and stay here until I come back?” She nodded, stretching on the couch in an obvious attempt to seduce him. Staffan forced himself to keep a steady pace as he walked out of the room, but the moment he saw Alan Carson waiting for him at the hall, surrounded by the other backup dancers, Staffan immediately charged for him.
