Chapter 4 Maia
Chapter four
Maia
Stepping into the dance studio, I was immediately met with squeals and little arms wrapping around me. The kids always greeted me like I’d been gone for weeks instead of a day, and I hugged each of them back before gently nudging my way toward the dressing room.
This afternoon’s lineup was packed with jazz, ballroom, and contemporary. My coworker, Brielle, handled ballet, pointe, and modern. If I had enough time before my shift at the club, I’d sneak into one of her classes just to keep my own skills sharp.
In front of the mirror, I pulled my hair into a low bun and sighed.
Two jobs, two worlds, both just to keep me afloat.
Brielle understood; she worked at the studio during the day and the library at night while raising a child.
I worked here and then poured drinks and waited tables until well past midnight.
The money at the club wasn’t bad. The tips were even better. But compared to the other girls? I barely scraped by. They made the real money, working the backrooms, entertaining private clients, taking the stage. Sometimes it was tempting, especially when bills stacked higher than my paychecks.
But lap dances for married men twice my age? Men with kids waiting at home? I couldn’t bring myself to cross that line.
As I finished getting ready, I stepped out of the dressing room only to be stopped by Madam Alexandrova, the studio’s owner. She held out an envelope.
“Take it. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
I frowned. “Madam A, we don’t get paid until next week.”
“Brielle told me the same thing ten minutes ago. You girls are too stubborn for your own good. Consider it an advance.”
“We’ve been getting advances for the last few months,” I admitted, guilt twisting in my stomach.
Her sharp eyes cut into me. “And if I didn’t care about you, you wouldn’t be getting it at all. Take it, or I’ll force you.”
I took the envelope reluctantly, guilt weighing heavier than the paper in my hand.
I hated pity. Hated how dependent Brielle and I…
and half the girls here were on Madam A.
Without her, I wouldn’t make rent, wouldn’t have food in my fridge.
But every time I saw the tired shadows under her eyes, I felt responsible.
A sharp slap landed on my shoulder. I jumped.
“Stop overthinking everything,” she barked, shooing me off before I could spiral further into my pity party.
Back in the dressing room, I shoved the envelope into my bag. The guilt lingered, but so did the relief. A small smile tugged at my lips despite myself. Without her, I don’t know what I’d do.
After my shift, I rushed home, showered, and dressed for the club. Black high-waisted jeans, a fitted long-sleeved tee, heels. It was neutral, safe enough for me to go unnoticed. Grabbing my bag, I paused in front of the bathroom mirror, fluffing my loose waves.
My hand drifted to my neck. The faint hickey had almost faded, one of the many marks Blaine Porter had left. For the first time all week, I didn’t need makeup to cover it.
I wasn’t like the other girls at the club, not really. I tried to separate myself from them, as bad as it sounded. They went home with clients, kept their bills paid in cash and gifts. I told myself I was different. Better. But the truth? I was worse. Because I was waiting. Waiting for him.
I thought about the way his hands held me, how he made me feel seen, cherished even, his humor woven so seamlessly into the rough edges of his dominance.
And I hated myself for it, but I thought about his face too. That sharp jaw you could cut glass on, cheekbones so precise they didn’t look real, the kind of piercing blue eyes that pinned you in place until you forgot how to breathe.
Dark hair always a little messy, like he’d just come from a bedroom session. He was unfairly beautiful… untouchable. And yet he’d touched me.
I squeezed my eyes shut, because even remembering his smile… the cocky tilt of his mouth, the dimples that only showed when he was teasing, it was enough to make me ache. Even as I remembered, I knew better than to expect anything.
Men like Blaine Porter or Killian Russel don’t call girls like me back.
Not the broken ones. The overworked ones. The ones who bend until they break just to survive. Why would they? When they've had their fun, they turn to the next girl with just as much baggage and no attachments. When they’re done, they move on to the next pretty distraction.
I shoved the thought away, grabbed a water bottle, and headed out.
Whatever that night had been with Mr. Porter, it was over. Just a fling. Just fun while it lasted.
And I had to remember: I lived in the real world. The kind where billionaires don’t give girls like me a second glance.
“Two old fashioneds,” one of the men said, leaning on the bar.
I gathered the ingredients, giving him a quick look. “Just because you order an old fashioned doesn’t mean you have to look the part too.”
They laughed, and one muttered, “Well, aren’t you amusing?”
“You’re supposed to tell me I’m pretty too.” I winked, sliding the drinks over.
“That you are…” he added, his eyes lingering a little too long.
I grinned through it, but as I turned away, a hand caught mine.
Something small and folded slipped into my palm.
I resisted the urge to jerk back and plastered on my smile.
The tip was generous, $150, but it didn’t make up for the way their eyes clung to my ass and chest like I was just another item on the menu.
As I tucked the bill away, Jennifer sauntered over, stage makeup still glinting under the low lights. She was a favorite here, and she loved making sure everyone knew it, never failed to tell us every shift.
“Big boss wants to see you in his office,” she said, her tone edged with something sharp.
“Doesn’t he know I’m busy?”
She shrugged, bored. “He doesn’t care. Lily will cover you.”
I exhaled hard, handing the last slips to Lily before weaving my way toward the back. Past lockers, past the doors of private rooms where muffled music and laughter leaked through. By the time I reached the office, the air already reeked of cigar smoke and cheap, over-sprayed cologne.
I knocked.
“Come in, sweetheart,” Vaughn’s voice called.
He leaned against his desk when I entered, arms folded casually like he had all the time in the world. He was in his early forties, good-looking in a way some women fell for, but I saw through his charm. His figure was a bit lanky and slender, but he was fit.
He reminded me more of a pimp than a businessman, and the smirk tugging at his mouth only made him uglier.
It made things worse when my mind betrayed me with a comparison I couldn’t shake: Blaine… the man of my dreams and in them. Broad shoulders filling out his shirt, that cocky smirk balanced with seduction and humor.
There was virtually no comparison.
I shut the door, forcing myself forward. “You wanted to see me, sir?” I asked softly, trying not to wrinkle my nose at the thick scent still hanging in the air.
“Good night so far?” he asked casually.
“Not bad,” I murmured, and he nodded like he’d expected that answer.
“That’s good. That’s good.” He took a long drag from his cigar, eyes never leaving me. “You’ve probably noticed, we’ve had an uptick in clients lately.”
I gave a small nod. Of course I had. The club always attracted money, but lately it was a different breed. Wealthy men who left their wedding vows at the door and came hunting for something else.
“And you,” he went on, smoke curling from his lips, “seem to have become a favorite among the new crowd.”
My stomach knotted. I didn’t like where this was going.
“With these newcomers… private room sales are lagging. They stay on the floor. Watching you.”
I froze. “I don’t think I understand, sir.”
His gaze slid down my figure with a slowness that made my skin crawl. “We’ve had a few… requests for you in the private rooms.”
My heart stuttered. “With all due respect, my job here is to bartend and serve. I’ll have to decline.”
“You think those big tips you’ve been pocketing are a coincidence?” His smirk made my stomach churn. “You’ve already accepted, sweetheart.”
“Then I’ll stop taking tips. Give the money back.” My voice wavered, desperation creeping in.
“Doesn’t work like that.” He slipped his hands into his pockets, like we were just discussing inventory instead of my body.
Tears stung my eyes. “Mr. Vaughn, please. I’m good at my job.”
He stepped closer. Too close. I flinched when his hand came up to my cheek, thumb brushing a tear I hadn’t realized fell.
“You’ll be better at this,” he murmured, eyes dragging lower. “I know you will.”
I stiffened, trying to step back, but his fingers snapped to my chin, gripping hard, forcing me to meet his stare.
“No job you’ll find will offer what I can.
You know that.” His voice dropped, cruel and intimate.
He leaned close, his breath hot at my ear.
“Put that dancing you do on the side to real use.
Maybe you'll make some real money doing the favors you did for Mr. Porter for some other clients instead of doing it for free like a cheap little whore.”
The words sliced through me. My stomach turned over, rage and shame clouding me until I ripped out of his hold, my chest heaving.
He only smoothed his jacket, his expression indifferent. “Lily will cover your shift. Go home. Collect yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
That was it. No threat, no raised voice; just dismissal, like I wasn’t even a person with choices.
I stormed out, barely keeping my tears from spilling until I reached the lockers. By then, it didn’t matter. I already felt exposed, violated, defeated. And deep down, I knew the worst was yet to come.