His Secret

one

The bass throbbed—low, decadent, steady. It didn't rush or beg. It commanded.

Every beat hit like a pulse through the floor, through the pole, through me.

It was the kind of track that made men shift in their seats—slowly. Greedy. Hypnotized. Not because it was loud, but because it knew it didn't have to be.

I wrapped my fingers around the pole, metal cold under my grip, and arched my back until the tight maroon thong I wore dug into my hips.

My boots—thigh-high, zippered halfway, laced tight and loud with every step—flexed under the strain.

Leather creaked like breath. The platform heel clanked with attitude.

I moved slow. Deliberate.

I was dressed in a sheer crimson halter that glittered under the red lights, cut low enough to expose the space beneath my breasts, where sweat shimmered like gloss.

My nipples were covered—barely—by tiny star-shaped pasties.

One of them had peeled up slightly. I left it.

Men loved thinking they were seeing something they shouldn't.

From the stage, I could clock every regular in the room.

Vest Guy. The one who always came straight from work, wedding ring on, breath sour with gin. Tonight he brought a friend. Probably a coworker. I gave him nothing. No smile, no wink. Just a sharp bend at the waist, slow and intentional, my ass angled toward him while I adjusted the strap on my heel.

He leaned forward, like he could catch something just out of reach.

Good.

Make him beg with his eyes.

That was the dance. The illusion of closeness with a wall of silence in between.

I gripped the pole with one hand and twisted—half spin, back arch, thigh pop. My body followed the music like it remembered who it used to be before I turned it into a tool.

I didn't flip. I didn't climb. I didn't need to.

My gift was stillness. Simmer.

Men paid for chaos. But they came back for control.

"Dream's on in two," the DJ said over the mic.

That was me now. Dream.

Dream didn't smile. Dream didn't trip over her words or wear clothes that creased wrong or wonder if someone still thought about her. Dream had perfect posture and a resting bitch face and a walk that said you want me to look at you, but you won't survive it if I do.

The music bled into something darker.

I dipped low, thigh muscles burning, hair clinging to the sweat on my back. One boot stayed planted while the other stretched out—long and languid. My hand slid down my thigh as I rose again, spine rolling slow.

Someone gasped.

Another dollar hit the floor.

Red lights spilled across the stage like blood, and for a moment, I felt beautiful. Not pretty. Not sexy.

Beautiful like a knife.

I closed down my set without fanfare, steps sharp as I left the stage. The dressing room was hazy—perfume, sweat, weed, and cheap body oil. A girl laughed from the showers. Another one sat braless on the floor, counting bills with chipped acrylics.

Someone was braiding her hair in the mirror. Another leaned into her friend's lap, tipsy and giggling while she counted singles and smeared off her lashes.

These were girls who'd slept on each other's couches, held each other's hair, split cabs when money was tight.

Someone asked me if I wanted a shot.

"No."

Another girl—Chyna—blew me a kiss. "Dream, you killed that shit tonight."

I gave her a small smile. "Thank you."

"You coming out Saturday?" Crystal asked, already shimmying into a leather mini and fluffing her curls. "We're hitting that spot by the pier—Jaz said it's no cover before one."

I gave a small shake of my head, tugging my hoodie over my glitter-sticky skin. "Next time."

"Girl, you always say that."

I smiled, small and fake. "I mean it this time."

I didn't stay long.

Didn't like lingering.

I changed fast—out of the glitter, out of the lashes, out of the face I wore for the stage. My hoodie swallowed me. My leggings were damp against my thighs. I shoved the bills into my canvas tote and pulled the hood up tight before slipping out the back exit.

The city was different at 4:45 a.m.

Softer.

Meaner.

Honest.

Streetlights buzzed like dying bees. Trash bags sat in piles on corners, heavy with secrets. A man swept his stoop barefoot. Another one pissed behind a dumpster, cursing to himself. The sky was a murky gray-blue. That liminal hour—between night and morning—where time didn't feel real.

I walked.

Always did.

The rhythm of my steps grounded me. I knew every crack in the sidewalk between the club and my building. Every shadow cast by the mural of the screaming woman. Every cigarette burn in the bus bench no one sat on.

The air was damp.

Not from rain.

From fatigue.

My thighs ached. My back throbbed. My feet pulsed from inside my sneakers like they were still dancing.

But I kept walking.

Didn't want to think. Didn't want to dream. Just wanted to move until I stopped remembering how to feel.

I turned onto my block just as the sun broke over the skyline—barely. A smudge of gold across a blue canvas that felt too clean for the life I lived.

I climbed the stairs to my building, keys clenched between my fingers, and paused at the mailbox.

I used to imagine I'd leave this block and never look back. Be one of the girls who makes it out, whatever that meant. But here I was, walking the same steps in different shoes, like I'd just circled the drain and called it a path.

I opened it to see mostly bills. Some junk. A half-folded coupon for teeth whitening.

And then—something different.

Cream envelope.

Thick. Heavy.

My heart hiccupped.

Ms. A. Hart.

The writing was neat. Intentional. Like someone had practiced.

There was no return address.

Didn't need to open it.

The envelope sat warm in my hand from the walk home, but the chill that ran through me was sharp.

I stood on the steps too long. Let the envelope press against my thigh as I unlocked the front door.

Inside, the apartment was still. Quiet in that way only exhaustion can make a space feel.

I dropped my keys. Kicked off my shoes.

The envelope stayed in my hand like a weapon.

I walked past the kitchen. Didn't look at the dishes in the sink. Didn't look at the wilting plant on the windowsill. Just moved straight to the living room and dropped into the corner of the couch like the weight of the night had finally caught up to me.

I cracked the seal.

One pull.

Inside: white cardstock, embossed, elegant.

The kind of thing people kept in boxes labeled Memories.

You are cordially invited to the wedding of Margot Wellesley and Brooks Whitmore IV.

Saturday.

Washington, D.C.

Formal attire required.

I didn't breathe.

Didn't blink.

Just let the silence flood the room.

The walls felt too close. The carpet felt too soft. The invitation felt like a slap I should've seen coming.

Brooks.

Of course.

And her.

Of course.

The card fluttered from my hand onto the coffee table.

I didn't cry.

Didn't scream.

Didn't pour a glass of wine or blast sad music or pace the room like some woman scorned.

I stood.

Walked to the bathroom.

Turned the shower on hot—scalding.

Let the steam rise before I stepped in.

And there, beneath the hiss of water and the weight of everything I thought I'd buried, I whispered his name once.

Just once.

So low I could pretend it wasn't real.

Then I let the water do what it always did.

Wash me until I disappeared again.