The club was alive tonight, lights flickering in patterns that made everything look like it was moving to a heartbeat I couldn't feel.
Music thumped from the speakers, low and heavy, vibrating through the floorboards and into my feet. I moved across the stage, heels clicking, hips swaying to the beat, and felt every eye on me. Some men were respectful. Most weren't. Most didn't care that I was human—they only saw what they wanted.
I had learned early that control was everything. You could dance, tease, make them laugh, whine, beg for more, but you couldn't give them the part that mattered most. Not yet. Survival meant keeping certain things sacred. My body could be admired, wanted, touched lightly—but my virginity was mine, untouchable until someone truly earned it.
Tonight, the energy was different. Maybe it was the crowd, maybe the new faces in the VIP section. I moved with confidence, letting the rhythm guide me, letting the music hide my thoughts. Every glance I caught, every hand that reached toward me, I met with a smile that didn't belong to me. It was a mask. My mask.
From the corner of the club, I noticed him. Or, rather, I sensed him before I saw him—dark suit, crisp lines, presence that made the air feel heavier. Adrian Cole. My stomach tightened, but I didn't stop. He wasn't here as a client. Not tonight. He stood with a small group of men, observing. His eyes tracked my movements like a predator, calculating, unreadable.
I swayed, letting the music dictate my rhythm, moving in ways that made the crowd roar, the drinks spill, the room bend to my performance. Some men reached toward me; I let their hands hover for a moment, enough to tease, to remind them I was in control. I wasn't afraid. Not really. I had survived nights like this before. But Adrian's stare was different. He didn't smile, didn't applaud, didn't join in. He just watched.
One of his men whispered something, and I could see the subtle nod Adrian gave. A flicker of acknowledgment passed between them, something professional, almost cold. Then his gaze returned to me, sharper now. He didn't like the club, didn't like the display, didn't like the noise—but he liked me. That thought made my chest tight in a way I didn't want to admit.
I finished my set, stepping off the stage with the same practiced confidence I had worn all night. The crowd cheered, clinking glasses, shouting for more, but I ignored them. My eyes scanned the room until they found him again, standing by the bar, watching, detached, evaluating. His expression was impossible to read. Hatred? Contempt? Or something else—interest?
I shook my head, forcing the thoughts away. Survival first. Always. I moved toward the exit, letting my hair sway, hips swinging naturally. Every step was measured, precise, because in this city, control meant safety.
As I left the club, the cool night air hit my face, carrying the smell of asphalt and exhaust. Somewhere in the distance, cars honked, music pulsed faintly from other venues, and the city continued its endless hum. I felt the tension from inside the club still clinging to me, like a second skin. Adrian Cole was a storm I couldn't ignore. And I didn't want to.
But I had rules. My body, my control, my secret—all mine. He wouldn't have what I wasn't ready to give. Not yet.