Camellia
Midnight.
The velvet curtain brushes the backs of my thighs like a secret. I take one step forward, then another, and I'm not Camellia anymore.
Camellia clocks into the hospital at 6AM, where patients complain louder than their heart monitors beep and call me "sweetheart" through wine-stained teeth. She keeps her mouth shut and scrubs in silence. She disappears.
But on this stage, I'm Mercy.
Mercy doesn't vanish. She demands.
The lights spill down in warm ribbons, low and golden, softening everything except me. I let the music slide into my spine. The beat curls beneath my ribs and pulses between my thighs. The crowd goes quiet, then noisy in that hungry, heavy way.
This is my altar. They come to worship.
And I let them.
Let them stare at the curve of my hips and the drip of sweat down my back. Let them fantasize about touching without ever earning the right. Let them toss bills like absolution.
I pretend I don't need the money.
I pretend I'm not already counting tips in my head—groceries, student debt, overdue bills, the extra shift I picked up at the hospital just to cover transportation. I pretend Mercy dances because she wants to.
But even lies become true if you say them with your whole body.
I dip low, press my palms to the floor, and snap my hips like the whipcrack they came for. A roar ripples through the crowd.
Then I feel him.
Back booth. Dim light. Expensive aura.
He's not like the others. He isn't hooting or tipping yet. Doesn't have his tongue hanging out or a drink halfway to his face. He's just…watching.
Maroon suit. Whiskey in a glass. That smile—slow and sharp, like he's already tasted everything worth biting in this world and still picked me out of the lineup.
My stomach tenses before I even let myself react.
Mr. Booth, I name him. Because calling him anything else feels too close to real.
And I don't do real here.
Except something about the way he sits—spine straight, head tilted like he's memorizing me from the inside out—scratches at the mask I wear. Like Mercy's glitter is see-through to him.
I don't like it.
I hate how aware I am of his eyes.
A dancer sways up to him near the edge of the stage—Pixie, all legs and pink braids. She's sweet, experienced, knows how to milk a look for twenty bucks easy.
He doesn't even blink at her.
Doesn't look away from me.
My heel slips—just barely. Enough for my thigh to tighten and catch my weight. I recover without missing a beat, but my heart spikes like I've been slapped.
'Don't let him rattle you. Don't give him that.' I tell myself.
But it's already done.
Across the room, a woman leans against the bar. Not a regular. Not a dancer.
She's still as glass.
Black slacks, a silk blouse, red lipstick so bold it looks painted in blood. Her dark eyes cut through the club's haze and land on me like a knife testing for softness.
She doesn't smile.
She doesn't blink.
And somehow, she's worse than Mr. Booth.
Like she's seen girls like me splinter down the middle and doesn't care. Or maybe she does. Maybe she's counting the cracks already.
I roll my hips harder, faster, give the crowd what they came for—heat, illusion, need. But it's not them I'm thinking about.
It's her.
And him.
Who the hell comes to Velvet just to watch?
Then again…who doesn't?
×
Backstage smells like vanilla body spray, spilled tequila, and stale dreams. Glitter clings to the floor. Girls laugh too loud or cry too quietly.
I peel off Mercy piece by piece—lashes, wig, corset—until I'm barefaced Camellia again, hunched on a crate in my oversized hoodie, wondering if I made enough to make a dent in rent.
"Booth 7 tipped a stack just to sit alone," one of the girls whispers nearby.
"Didn't even blink," another replies. "Just stared at Mercy the whole time."
My skin crawls and tightens all at once.
I reach into my locker and freeze.
There's a note. No envelope. Just folded paper. Smooth and deliberate.
I unfold it slowly, half-expecting it to bite.
Silver ink. Slanted handwriting.
'You wear your mask well. But some of us see the girl underneath.'
No name. No signature. Just the scent of cedar and smoke, faint but clinging.
My fingers tremble before I stuff it into my bag. I don't want to ask how it got there. I already know.
It's him.
Mr. Booth.
I should throw it away.
I don't.
×
I leave Mercy folded in the corner of my duffel bag. She smells like vanilla, sweat, and survival.
The other girls are still laughing behind me, trading tip counts and lip gloss. But my locker shuts with a click that feels final.
I move through Velvet's backstage hallways like I'm being watched.
And maybe I am.
The note still burns in my pocket. I haven't looked at it again. I don't have to.
You wear your mask well. But some of us see the girl underneath.
His eyes saw right through me. I don't know if he meant to undress me, or just dissect me. Either way, I feel exposed.
I yank my hoodie tighter around myself and push through the heavy staff exit door—
But stop cold.
The hallway is empty.
Except for her.
The woman from the bar.
She's leaning against the wall like she belongs to it. One heel crossed over the other. Mouth painted blood-red. Her gaze slices through the low light and lands on me with surgical precision.
My pulse stutters.
She doesn't speak right away. She just watches me. Like I'm a story she's halfway through reading and deciding whether it deserves a tragic ending.
Then, slowly, she smiles. Not kind. Not cruel. Just knowing.
"You should be careful, Mercy."
Her voice is smooth as glass. She says my stage name like it's something she invented.
"Men like him don't just watch. They collect."
I force myself to breathe. My mouth is dry.
"Good thing I'm not for sale."
It comes out sharper than I mean it to. But I don't take it back.
She laughs once, quiet and low.
"That's the kind of thing girls like us say right before we get bought."
She straightens, brushing imaginary lint from her black silk sleeve. Walks past me like I'm furniture.
Then she pauses, right beside me. So close I smell her perfume—jasmine and steel.
"Nice note, by the way."
I stiffen.
She leans in, her voice just above a whisper:
"You really think they leave things like that without permission?"
Before I can respond—before I can react—she's already gone.
Vanished down the hall like smoke.
Before I could decide what to do, my legs carried me outside.
I step out into the night too fast, like the cold will slap some clarity into me.
It doesn't.
Downtown is a collection of shadows and cracked neon. My bus is late. Or maybe I missed it. Either way, I'm alone.
My phone is dead.
Of course it is.
I keep moving, past the closed pawn shops and flickering streetlamps. My sneakers squeak on the wet sidewalk.
I tell myself the woman was just trying to scare me.
I tell myself he—Mr. Booth—is just another rich man with a God complex.
But my fingers are still curled around that note in my pocket like it means something.
And it does.
Because for a second…
Just a second…
I wanted someone to see the girl underneath.
Not Mercy. Not the mask.
Just me.
Home is a second-floor walk-up that smells like old radiator pipes and takeout containers. My neighbor is fighting with someone on speakerphone.
I step into my apartment and lock the door behind me three times.
The silence hits harder than the noise did.
I strip down in the tiny bathroom. The mirror is cracked. I look into it anyway.
My face is bare now. Camellia again.
But something's wrong.
I don't feel like just Camellia.
And I sure as hell don't feel like Mercy.
I feel… watched.
No—owned.
And not by a man.
Not entirely.
The woman from the bar's voice echoes in my head. "They don't just watch. They collect."
I grab the note, unfold it again. Silver ink gleaming under the bathroom light.
You wear your mask well. But some of us see the girl underneath.
Who the hell is 'some of us'?
I should rip it up.
I should burn it.
I should scream.
But instead, God help me, I tuck it into my nightstand drawer.
Carefully.
Like it's a gift.