"Maybe I'll come watch," he said, his grin turning playful as his gaze lingered a little too long on her hips.
"You can't afford me, darling." It was easier to joke. Easier to pretend she liked the attention when all she really wanted was a life where she didn't need to sell pieces of herself for cash.
The bouncer unhooked the velvet rope, giving her a mock bow as if she were royalty. The long queue outside groaned in envy as she stepped through. Inside, the bass thumped through the floor.
Her stomach tightened, but she kept moving, weaving past waitresses in fishnets and drunk men pawing at anything with legs until she reached the sanctuary of the dressing room.
The room buzzed with chaotic energy—girls laughing, spraying perfume, fighting with eyeliner pens, snapping gum, swapping gossip. A rainbow of wigs and sequined lingerie spilled across the counters.
"Heeey, Beyoncé!" the chorus came the moment she stepped in.
Ivy grinned and slapped palms with them one by one. For a few minutes in here, she wasn't just a broke twenty-one-year-old running herself into the ground—she was part of a sisterhood of survivors. Each girl had a story, a reason they were here.
She made her way to her locker and opened it. "Mr. Ben put your costume for tonight in there," Tricia—stage name, obviously—called over her shoulder as she adjusted her bra straps in the mirror.
"Thanks, Trish. Did he add a mask?" Ivy asked, already knowing the answer but hoping anyway.
"I think so." Trish smirked, applying one last swipe of red lipstick before strutting toward the door. "You know Ben knows better. Beyoncé doesn't go out bare-faced." Her laugh was raspy. Then the DJ's call blared over the speaker: "Trish to stage in two."
With a wink, Trish tossed her boa around her shoulders and left, hips swaying.
Ivy stared into her locker. She peeled off her blouse and skirt, folding them neatly. Her day-self—the secretary, the professional—had to be hidden away. Locked behind the metal door.
Her fingers hesitated when they brushed the mask. Smooth satin, shaped like a half-face disguise, black with tiny sequins. Her shield. Without it, she was Ivy Morales. With it, she was Beyoncé— a fantasy.
She dangled it in her hand for a long moment, staring at her reflection in the mirror. The girl who looked back at her was tired. She was scared. She was playing too many roles, and eventually one of them would crack.
How long was she going to do this for? How long before Steve or her mother discovered the truth?
She sat down on the long bench. The muffled roar of the guests outside filtered through the door. Her turn was coming.
And she would own it, because she had no choice.
******
Winn only ever stepped into Commissioned when he needed a distraction. This week, working with Ivy Morales merited a good old-fashioned distraction.
He needed alcohol that burned down his throat and naked bodies moving to a rhythm that might quench the fire clawing at his insides.
Commissioned was the club. Joey had been the one to introduce him years ago. They had prowled the place together, Joey forever chasing the next thrill while Winn watched from the shadows, amused and detached.
But Joey got married, hung up his bad habits, and suddenly Winn had no partner in crime. Without Joey, the club had felt too loud, too empty, too obvious—so he ditched it altogether. Until tonight.
He didn't plan to linger. Just an hour, maybe two, enough to dull the edge before heading back to his penthouse. He'd promised his mother he'd visit this weekend, and for once, he intended to keep that promise. Guilt always hung heavy after those phone calls.
The staff recognized him instantly. As a platinum member, Winn never had to wait in line or rub elbows with the desperate. A tall hostess with glitter-dusted cleavage and a too-bright smile led him through the back corridors, straight into one of the private glass boxes.
One-way glass, dim lighting, leather seating. In here, he could watch everything and still remain invisible. He liked that.
He sank into the wide armchair, loosening his tie as the music pulsed through the floor. He let his head fall back against the cushion, and directed his gaze to the stage.
A dancer swayed under the spotlight, curves shimmering with oil, moving to the slow seduction of Akon's "Beautiful." Winn's eyes traced her movements. Commissioned's dancers were stunning.
If you liked one of them enough, the manager would take a request. The girl would be sent to you for a lap dance. He'd never done it. Not that he couldn't find them attractive—he had eyes, after all. But he wasn't thirsty
His usual brand of champagne—Dom Pérignon Rosé was served. Commissioned's staff never failed him; it was part of the obscene membership fee. He rolled the stem of the glass between his fingers, the bubbles catching the glow of the low lights.
While waiting for the alcohol to mellow his edges, he thumbed his phone and placed a video call across to Joey. The man finally picked up on the third ring, his face flooding Winn's screen, tousled hair, lazy grin, bare chest, and silk sheets crumpled in the background.
Of course.
"Hey, dude!" Joey looked smugly sated, stretched across the hotel bed.
"Hi, Joey. How's the second honeymoon treating you?"
"Splendid," Joey replied. "Should have taken one sooner."
"Yeah, well," Winn drawled, eyes narrowing, "you're not getting any more vacation time for the next five years. This was the worst possible time you could disappear."
"There's always a worst possible time, Winn." Joey smirked, stretching lazily. "House of Kane has grown even bigger than we thought it would. It's a beast now, runs on autopilot half the time. You don't need to hover like some obsessed helicopter parent. And you haven't taken a break in twenty years." Joey's grin turned into an accusing glare. "You're practically married to the company."