CHAPTER 1
The bass thrums through my bones like a second heartbeat. Steady. Relentless. Nothing like the frantic flutter trapped behind my ribs.
I arch my back against the pole, feeling the cool metal press against my spine. The lights above me paint my skin in shades of red and pink.
Rose. That's who I am tonight. Not Claire Young, the desperate pre-med student drowning in school work and student loans. Here, I'm someone else. Someone untouchable.
The men below me blur into a single, hungry entity. Their eyes follow my movements, tracking each slide of skin against metal. I've learned to see without seeing. To look through them instead of at them. It's easier that way. Makes me feel less like merchandise.
My hands grip the pole as I spin, legs extended, back arched. The world blurs. For three perfect seconds, I'm flying. Weightless. Free.
But even in the blur, one point of stillness snags my attention. On the edge of the VIP section, leaning against a pillar, is Ian Harris. Head of security. While the other men's eyes rove and glitter with simple lust, his are different. Fixed.He watches me not like a customer, but like a hawk studying its prey, memorizing the beat of its wings before the dive.
Then gravity claims me again.
I land in a crouch, the platform vibrating beneath my heels. Six-inch platforms that could kill a man if I stepped on his throat. Sometimes I think about that. Not because I would. Just because I could.
"Gentlemen." My voice doesn't sound like mine. Lower. Silkier. A voice that promises things Claire would never deliver. "Who wants a closer look?"
The VIP section of Rhapsody isn't like other clubs. The lighting is better, for one thing. Soft indigos and deep purples that flatter every skin tone. The men wear suits instead of jeans. They don't shout or grab. They raise a finger, subtle, like they're summoning a waiter at a five-star restaurant.
It's all so fucking civilized. That's what makes it worse somehow.
My eyes flicker to the pillar again. He's still there. A statue carved from shadow and menace. Unmoving. Unblinking. It should be unnerving. It is. But it’s also the only thing in this room that feels real.
I slide off the stage, moving between tables with practiced ease. My G-string holds more money than my checking account has seen in months. Each bill is a small surrender. Each one a textbook. A lab fee. Another month's rent. A dent in the massive amount of student loans I took out to attend school.
"Rose." A man in a charcoal suit extends his hand, not touching me. They know the rules. "Private dance?"
I smile. The smile that isn't mine. "Of course."
The champagne room is all velvet shadows and discretion. I dance for him, my body close but never touching. He tells me about his wife who doesn't understand him. His recentpromotion that’s stressing him out. His dreams that died somewhere in his forties.
I nod. I sway. I pretend to care.
He gives me three hundred dollars for twenty minutes of movement and manufactured empathy.
It's a good night.
By 2 AM, my feet scream in protest and the glitter on my skin feels like sandpaper. The locker room beckons—a fluorescent-lit reality check after hours in the fantasy world of the main floor. The other girls are scattered around, some counting money, others wiping off makeup that took hours to apply.
"Killing it tonight, Rose," Saffron calls from her locker. Her red hair falls in damp tendrils around her face, makeup half-removed. She looks younger without it. We all do.
"Rent week," I answer, as if that explains everything. And it does.
Soon enough, I’m the last one in the room.
I peel off my pasties, wincing as the adhesive pulls at my skin. My nipples are sore, angry red circles marking where they've been confined for the past six hours. I slide into a sports bra, the compression a different kind of confinement but one that feels like armor rather than exhibition.
The bathroom mirror shows me a stranger. Pink-tinted hair pulled into a high ponytail. Eyes rimmed in black, lips painted the color of blood. Glitter across my collarbones like tiny shards of glass catching the light.
I barely recognize myself. That's the point.
Makeup wipe in hand, I begin the transformation back to Claire. Stroke by stroke, I erase Rose from my skin. She dissolves into the cotton, a smear of red and black and artifice.
The door swings open behind me. In the mirror, I watch him enter. I’m not certain who it is, just that he has the wrong equipment to be in here.
"Ladies' locker room," I say without turning around. My voice is Claire's now. Flat. Uninviting.
