Chapter 1
Olivia
The smell of the dressing room hit me like a fist—cheap perfume, deodorant, and mildew hiding somewhere in the corner.
Music from the next booth rattled the makeup mirror, blurring my reflection. One bulb was dead. The rest flickered, splitting my face in half—one side in light, one in shadow, like those women in horror movies who never make it past the first ten minutes.
I stared at the mirror for thirty seconds.
Then decided not to look anymore.
"The neckline could go lower."
Maria circled behind me and yanked down the fabric at my chest. I stepped back instinctively. She didn't even blink. "First-timers are all like this. Shy and fidgety. You'll loosen up once you're on stage. I've seen it a hundred times."
She had seen it. I could hear it in her tone—calm, matter-of-fact, not even bothering with comfort. Just stating a fact.
"Did you drink?" She nodded at the vodka bottle on the table.
"Yeah."
"How much?"
"...One sip."
She looked at me. That look translated to something like: Are you kidding me?
She shoved the bottle into my hand. "Drink more. Not saying get drunk. Just loosen that rod in your spine. Right now, you're standing there straighter than a broomstick. Get on stage like that, everyone's gonna think a nun walked in."
"Please, Maria, give me a break."
"No. Not happening. I'm not letting you ruin the club's reputation." Maria crossed her arms, her smoky eyes locked on me like if I didn't drink, I wasn't leaving this room.
I sighed and twisted off the cap. Took a big gulp.
Burned. Not the smooth kind. The kind that scorched your throat, like swallowing hot coals. I coughed. My eyes watered.
Maria looked satisfied. She took the bottle back. "Good girl. Remember, everyone here tonight has money. Don't be scared. They won't climb on stage. You just dance. The bills will fly themselves."
She checked her watch. "Five minutes. You're up."
Five minutes.
I glanced down at the mirror—forget it. Said I wouldn't look.
I ran the numbers again in my head. Dad's debt. Last month, it rolled over with interest. The fat guy who kept calling wasn't polite anymore. Last week, he even showed up outside Sophie's school. When Sophie called me, her voice was calm, but I knew she was scared. She just didn't want me to worry.
She was seventeen. Seventeen-year-olds shouldn't know what debt collectors look like.
So tonight, I was here.
Simple as that.
While I waited at the side of the stage, I imagined myself as an empty container.
My ballet teacher taught me this. Before you go on stage, clear out everything.
Let the music pour in. She never said what "everything" meant.
I guess she was thinking nerves or distractions.
She didn't expect one of her students would use this trick to empty out thoughts like "I'm backstage at a strip club right now. "
She probably didn't expect me to end up here.
I didn't expect it either.
This time last year, I was practicing until my toes bled for a spot in the ballet company.
A year before that, I sat at my American Ballet Academy graduation, thinking the hard part was over.
Now I stood here, black lace digging into my skin, heels seven centimeters higher than my pointe shoes, ankles already starting to ache.
Life was unpredictable.
The second that thought crossed my mind, the lights went out.
Someone whistled. Then came the noise: glasses clinking, men laughing loud. That particular sound of booze, a room full of people, waiting for a show.
The music started.
I walked out.
When the spotlight hit, I almost froze.
It was brighter than I expected. The faces below blurred into shadows, but their voices were solid, real.
"Here she comes."
"Wow!"
"Gorgeous!"
A few sharp whistles cut through the air.
My fingers found the pole. Grabbed it. Cold metal shot up through my palm.
Move.
My body moved, but stiffly. Not nerves. Muscle memory fighting back—five years of training, every muscle remembering the rules. Spine straight. Land soft. Arms curved. Every movement had its place. No extra. No mess. No wildness.
But that wasn't what they wanted here.
Someone in the crowd was already getting impatient.
"Move it!"
"Strip!"
Strip.
That word hit me. My face burned. At least the spotlight was hot enough to hide it.
I tried to move my hips with the beat. Too small. Too controlled. Like I was at an exam.
The vodka burned in my stomach, but it hadn't reached where it needed to go.
Then I thought of Sophie's call.
Don't worry, Olivia.
Seventeen years old, voice steady like an adult, but she called at eleven at night. Still awake that late, worried about something. I knew what. I just couldn't think about it too much. If I did, I'd collapse and not get back up.
The heat finally spread from my stomach into the rest of me.
I let go of the pole. Let my body take over.
My hair slipped off my shoulder. The fabric shifted. The noise below jumped eight decibels. Someone threw the first bill. Green paper spun in the spotlight and landed at my feet.
Good.
That's it.
The shame was still there, but it started turning into something else—a sticky, addictive heat spreading up from my core. I told myself it was just the music, just the beat, just my body doing what it was trained to do. But the electric itch rising from my bones said it wasn't that simple.
I let my hips roll with the beat, bigger and bigger. The cheers got louder.
Under the spotlight, the air was thick. Tobacco, alcohol, sweat mixed with cologne, pressing down layer by layer. I raised my arms overhead, fingers wrapping around the pole, letting my body climb—arching my back, fabric pulling tight across my chest. The crowd gasped. Then exploded.
The fabric was damp now. Starting to cling. I knew what that meant. But I didn't pull at it.
I didn't pull at it.
That thought alone made my heart skip—not panic. Something stranger. Like standing at the edge of a height, legs weak, but eyes refusing to look away.
I let go of the pole. Slid down slowly, body pressed against the metal, inch by inch, until I crouched on the floor, leaning back, throat exposed to all those eyes.
Someone cursed. I straightened slowly. The fabric slipped lower.
The edge hovered at a dangerous point. I glanced down, let my fingers trace that edge. Didn't pull.
"Take it off!"
"Do it!"
"Come on, baby!"
I didn't.
I just looked up at them, smiled, then put my finger in my mouth and bit down gently on the tip. That "doing nothing" drove them crazier than if I'd actually stripped. I could hear it in their voices.
Everything ballet gave me started working in reverse—control of my waist, the lines of my legs, my body knowing how to balance at the limit. I arched back, hair touching the floor, fabric sliding down my chest, catching at the most dangerous edge. Held there.
Bills started raining down.
Someone nearly climbed on stage. Security pulled him back. His eyes were red, like he wanted to swallow me whole. I straightened, dodging the hands reaching out, but every time I pulled away, I let my body brush close—making them think they could touch, but they couldn't.
At some point, I realized: I was enjoying this.
Not the stares. The "can't touch." That control—I was here, but I chose to be here. No one could take what I didn't want to give.
That thought hit harder than the vodka I'd actually drunk.
I straightened, breathing uneven, chest rising and falling. The air was hot, sticky, buzzing. I floated in that noise, felt a little light—not drunk. Weightless. Like something was holding me up.
My gaze drifted across the crowd.
And then I saw him.
Not because he was shouting. The opposite. Because he wasn't.
Deep in the VIP section, smoke thicker there, dim yellow light falling, everyone leaning forward, yelling, throwing money. Except him. He leaned back, lazy, drink in hand, watching me with eyes that didn't match the room.
Contempt.
With a hint of curiosity, but not attraction. The kind you'd have watching something boring—like a goldfish circling in a glass bowl.
Oh.
I froze for half a second. The heat inside me cooled instantly.
Shame rushed back, fierce and flooding, burning from my face to my fingertips. I suddenly understood exactly what I was doing—half-naked, moving in front of a room full of men. And he was watching with that look. Like he was saying: This is all you are.
But—
Why should I care?
That "why" hit harder than the shame, hotter, shoving the wave right back.
I didn't look away.
Neither did he.
I slowed down. Not from fear. Slow had more power—I knew that. Ballet taught me that. The hardest thing was never speed. It was slow. Taking your time when everyone was waiting.
I let my hips turn slowly. Small movements, but low. My fingers started at my collarbone, traced down the curve of my chest, over the rise and fall, stopping at the thin lace tie at my waist. I hooked it. Tugged gently. Let it loosen.
Not fast. Slow. Bit by bit, pulling the tie free, dangling it in the air.
The fabric at my chest lost support on one side, sagging down.
The side of my breast was fully exposed.
Only the front barely covered, fabric stretched to its limit, rising and falling with my breath, like it could fall any second.
Five seconds later, I let go.
Left the tie hanging. Fabric crooked, barely clinging, about to fall.
The crowd roared, but I didn't hear it.
I only watched him.
His finger stopped.
The one that had been tapping the armrest. Stopped.
If I hadn't been staring, I wouldn't have noticed. But I did. That movement made something tighten inside me, then a scorching satisfaction I couldn't name.
Not so cool after all, are you?
I smiled at him. Not pleasing. Real. With a hint of cruelty. Then I put my finger in my mouth, slowly sucked on it while facing him, tongue circling, wet sounds clear in the gaps between music.
His hand tightened.
The one holding the glass. Tightened.
I won.
I turned around. Put my back to him. Walked slowly toward the other side of the stage.
I knew he was still watching.
When you turn your back on someone, you can tell if they're staring.
Two completely different feelings. Right now, I felt his gaze like something solid, landing on the back of my neck, between my shoulder blades, down my spine, stopping at the small of my back, at my hips, at the black lace edge digging into the top of my thighs.
I didn't turn around.
But I walked slowly, every step hitting the bass drum beat dead center, letting my hips sway with each step.
When I reached the edge of the stage, I stopped, bent down to pick up the bills—posture lifting my hips high, aimed right at his direction.
I stayed like that, slow, picking them up one by one, letting my body shift with each movement.
I heard a sound from his direction. Faint, barely audible.
Breathing.
Heavy.
Like holding back at the limit.
I straightened. Looked back at him.
He was still watching.
But the look was different.
Not contempt anymore. Something else. Darker. More dangerous. Like something provoked.
I blew him a kiss. Then turned and kept dancing.
This time, I knew I wasn't dancing for the crowd.
I was dancing for him.
When the music stopped, I couldn't remember how long I'd been up there.
Knees weak. Heels rubbing blisters. Hair a mess. Bills covering the stage. Fabric soaked through, clinging to every curve. I bent down, gathered the money roughly. Maria rushed up, threw a thin robe over me.
"You!" She pointed at me, voice full of shock and delight. "First time on stage—you're telling me that was your first time?!"
"Yes." My voice was hoarse.
"I thought you'd last ten minutes max before coming down crying, but instead—" She didn't finish. Just slapped a stack of bills into my hand. "Count it. At least twenty-five hundred. That's not even counting the VIP tips. You just blew all the veterans out of the water tonight."
I looked down at the money. Heavy in my palm.
Twenty-five hundred.
Cover the interest. Sophie's expenses next month. The fat guy would back off for at least two weeks—
Something in my chest loosened. Like a fist clenched too long finally opening a crack.
"Don't just stand there counting." Maria tapped my hand.
"Put it away. I'll settle up with you before you leave.
" She paused, lowered her voice, a hint of something at the corner of her mouth.
"Oh, and someone requested you. Wants to buy you a drink.
VIP section, private room. Five-hundred-dollar tip upfront. "
I looked up. "Who?"
"No name." She shrugged, but her eyes said more. "Just said they saw your set tonight. Want to buy you a drink."
My heart skipped.
I asked her, "That guy in the back corner booth..."
"Which one?"
"The one... forget it. Nothing."
Maria smiled slowly, knowingly. "Oh, really."
"I just—"
"Sure, sure, just asking, I know." She winked, pressed the room number into my hand. "Up to you if you go. But I'm telling you, anyone sitting in that section tonight? Not ordinary people."
I stood in the hallway, looking at the paper in my hand.
Room 208.
Was it him?
I wanted to say I was going to figure out why he looked at me like that. To prove something. That this was just work.
But all those reasons became excuses the moment I pushed through the door and headed toward the VIP section.
I just wanted to see him again.