Ruined Roses (Tarnished Petals #1)

Chapter 1

T he bass thrums through my bones like a second heartbeat. Steady. Relentless. Nothing like the frantic flutter trapped behind my ribs.

I arch my back against the pole, feeling the cool metal press against my spine. The lights above me paint my skin in shades of red and pink.

Rose. That's who I am tonight. Not Claire Young, the desperate pre-med student drowning in school work and student loans. Here, I'm someone else. Someone untouchable.

The men below me blur into a single, hungry entity. Their eyes follow my movements, tracking each slide of skin against metal. I've learned to see without seeing. To look through them instead of at them. It's easier that way. Makes me feel less like merchandise.

My hands grip the pole as I spin, legs extended, back arched. The world blurs. For three perfect seconds, I'm flying. Weightless. Free.

But even in the blur, one point of stillness snags my attention.

On the edge of the VIP section, leaning against a pillar, is Ian Harris.

Head of security. While the other men's eyes rove and glitter with simple lust, his are different.

Fixed. He watches me not like a customer, but like a hawk studying its prey, memorizing the beat of its wings before the dive.

Then gravity claims me again.

I land in a crouch, the platform vibrating beneath my heels. Six-inch platforms that could kill a man if I stepped on his throat. Sometimes I think about that. Not because I would. Just because I could.

"Gentlemen." My voice doesn't sound like mine. Lower. Silkier. A voice that promises things Claire would never deliver. "Who wants a closer look?"

The VIP section of Rhapsody isn't like other clubs.

The lighting is better, for one thing. Soft indigos and deep purples that flatter every skin tone.

The men wear suits instead of jeans. They don't shout or grab.

They raise a finger, subtle, like they're summoning a waiter at a five-star restaurant.

It's all so fucking civilized. That's what makes it worse somehow.

My eyes flicker to the pillar again. He's still there. A statue carved from shadow and menace. Unmoving. Unblinking. It should be unnerving. It is. But it’s also the only thing in this room that feels real.

I slide off the stage, moving between tables with practiced ease.

My G-string holds more money than my checking account has seen in months.

Each bill is a small surrender. Each one a textbook.

A lab fee. Another month's rent. A dent in the massive amount of student loans I took out to attend school.

"Rose." A man in a charcoal suit extends his hand, not touching me. They know the rules. "Private dance?"

I smile. The smile that isn't mine. "Of course."

The champagne room is all velvet shadows and discretion. I dance for him, my body close but never touching. He tells me about his wife who doesn't understand him. His recent promotion that’s stressing him out. His dreams that died somewhere in his forties.

I nod. I sway. I pretend to care.

He gives me three hundred dollars for twenty minutes of movement and manufactured empathy.

It's a good night.

By 2 AM, my feet scream in protest and the glitter on my skin feels like sandpaper.

The locker room beckons—a fluorescent-lit reality check after hours in the fantasy world of the main floor.

The other girls are scattered around, some counting money, others wiping off makeup that took hours to apply.

"Killing it tonight, Rose," Saffron calls from her locker. Her red hair falls in damp tendrils around her face, makeup half-removed. She looks younger without it. We all do.

"Rent week," I answer, as if that explains everything. And it does.

Soon enough, I’m the last one in the room.

I peel off my pasties, wincing as the adhesive pulls at my skin. My nipples are sore, angry red circles marking where they've been confined for the past six hours. I slide into a sports bra, the compression a different kind of confinement but one that feels like armor rather than exhibition.

The bathroom mirror shows me a stranger. Pink-tinted hair pulled into a high ponytail. Eyes rimmed in black, lips painted the color of blood. Glitter across my collarbones like tiny shards of glass catching the light.

I barely recognize myself. That's the point.

Makeup wipe in hand, I begin the transformation back to Claire. Stroke by stroke, I erase Rose from my skin. She dissolves into the cotton, a smear of red and black and artifice.

The door swings open behind me. In the mirror, I watch him enter. I’m not certain who it is, just that he has the wrong equipment to be in here.

"Ladies' locker room," I say without turning around. My voice is Claire's now. Flat. Uninviting.

"Rose." He says my stage name like he's tasting it. "Or should I say... Claire?"

My heart stops. Actually fucking stops. Then restarts with a painful lurch that makes me grip the edge of the sink.

I turn slowly, makeup wipe still clutched in my hand. "You're not supposed to be in here."

He leans against the doorframe, all designer jeans and smug entitlement. "Funny running into you. Didn't expect to see someone from Advanced Biochem grinding on a pole."

And then it hits me all at once. He’s Theo Mason, from my class.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The fluorescent lights suddenly seem too bright. Exposing. I'm half-dressed, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with skin and everything to do with worlds colliding that were never supposed to meet.

"Get out," I say, but my voice betrays me. Trembles when it should be commanding.

"Don't be like that." He steps closer. His cologne is too strong, something expensive trying to mask the whiskey on his breath. "Your secret's safe with me."

Lies. Those words are always lies.

"What do you want?" I already know. Men like Theo only want one thing when they have leverage.

His smile stretches, slow and predatory. "Just some private time. The kind you give all those other guys." His eyes travel down my body, lingering on the sports bra, the tiny panties I haven't had time to change out of. "Unless you want everyone at school to know how you pay your tuition."

There it is. The threat. The knife against my future.

"That's not happening." I reach for my bag, for my phone. Security will come if I call. Richard Blackwood doesn't tolerate customers harassing his dancers. It's bad for business.

Theo moves faster than I expect, his hand closing around my wrist. Not hard enough to bruise. Just hard enough to stop me.

"Think about it, Claire. Med school applications coming up. What would the admissions committee say?" His thumb strokes my pulse point, a parody of tenderness. "All those ethics questions they ask. All that judgment."

My future flashes before me. The rejection letters. The whispers. The doors closing before I ever get a chance to walk through them.

I could kick him. Six-inch platforms aimed at his groin. I could scream. The other girls would come running.

But then everyone would know. Word would spread. The careful wall between my worlds would crumble.

"Let go of me." My voice is ice now. The cold fury that lives beneath my skin when I'm cornered.

"Just one night." His grip tightens slightly. "That's all I'm asking. You do it for strangers all the time."

"Problem here?"

The new voice slices through the tension like a blade. Deep. Authoritative. Belonging to the man now filling the doorway behind Theo.

Ian Harris. Head of security. Six-foot-something of controlled menace in a black button-down and slacks. His face is a study in restrained anger—jaw tight, eyes narrowed, body coiled like he's calculating exactly how much force it would take to remove Theo from the premises. From existence.

Theo's hand drops from my wrist like I've suddenly caught fire.

"Just talking to an old friend," he says, voice light but eyes darting toward the exit.

Ian doesn't move from the doorway. "Locker room's off limits to customers." Not a request. A statement of fact. The kind backed by consequences.

"We were just finishing up," Theo says, edging toward the door. He glances back at me, a promise in his eyes that makes my stomach turn. "See you in class, Claire."

The name hangs in the air between us. A bomb detonated in slow motion.

Ian's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes. Recognition and understanding.

Theo scurries past him like a rat. Ian doesn't even watch him go. His focus is entirely on me.

Then it's just us.

"You okay?" he asks. Simple words that shouldn't make my throat tight.

I nod because speaking feels impossible. The adrenaline is crashing now, leaving me shaky and cold.

"He won't be back," Ian says. A promise or a threat. Maybe both.

His knuckles are white where he grips the doorframe. A controlled violence that was ready to be unleashed on my behalf. The thought sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear.

"He knows my real name." The words escape before I can stop them. "He's in one of my classes."

Ian studies me for a long moment. I've seen him around the club for months. Always watching. Always on the periphery. We've never spoken beyond "good night" or "ID check." Yet something about his presence makes the panic recede a fraction.

"I'll handle it," he says finally.

"How?" The question sounds desperate even to my own ears.

"Richard takes care of his people." He says it like it's simple. Like Richard Blackwood, the nightclub’s owner who rarely shows his face, would concern himself with a dancer's problems.

"I'm just—" I stop, swallow the words 'just a stripper.' "I can handle it."

Ian's expression doesn't change, but something softens around his eyes. "Everyone here is under Richard's protection. Including you." He steps back toward the door. "Finish changing. Someone will escort you home."

The door closes behind him, and I'm alone again with my reflection. Half Claire. Half Rose. Wholly fucked.

I slide down against the cold tile wall, knees to my chest, and allow myself thirty seconds of pure, unfiltered terror.

My future hanging by a thread. My carefully constructed double life exposed.

Everything I've worked for threatened by one entitled asshole who thinks my body belongs to him because he's seen it on stage.

Twenty-nine. Thirty.

I stand up. Finish removing my makeup. Change into jeans and a hoodie. Pull my hair into a messy bun. Claire again.

But not quite. Something of Rose remains—a hardness around my eyes. A coldness in my chest. The knowledge that men like Theo will always see women like me as commodities to be purchased or stolen.

The locker room is silent when I leave. The club nearly deserted. Just the cleaning crew and security remaining.

Ian waits by the back door, silent and watchful. Beside him stands Richard Blackwood himself. I've only seen him a handful of times in the two years I've worked here. He's older than Ian by at least a decade, silver peppering his temples. Expensive suit and handsome as a devil himself.

"Ms. Young," Richard says, his voice cultured in a way that speaks of old money and older influence. "Ian tells me we had an incident."

I clutch my bag tighter. "It's handled."

Richard smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Nevertheless, I'd like to offer you a ride home. My driver is waiting."

Not a request.

"I can ride the subway," I say, the protest weak even to my own ears.

Richard gestures toward the door. "Please. I insist."

I’ve learned one thing in my two years at Rhapsody: you don’t refuse Richard Blackwood. People who do have a way of disappearing.

I follow him outside, into the warm summer night that smells of rain and city grime. A black SUV with tinted windows idles by the curb.

Ian opens the door, his eyes meeting mine briefly. "Don’t worry," he says quietly. A reassurance I didn't know I needed.

As I slide into the leather backseat, Richard beside me, I realize that tonight has changed everything.