Another mask.
Another night.
The crowd gets uglier as the hours drag on. Fingers linger too long. Hands wander too far. Eyes peel me like they’re entitled to the core.
But I smile.
Because that’s what survival looks like in heels.
Because crying in the bathroom won’t pay rent.
Because quitting means starving.
I drop off tequila shots at a corner booth, twisting out of the grasp of a drunk who barks like a dog when I pass. He grabs at my arse, catching only air. His friends laugh.
I don’t.
Lola was right. One day, I won’t make it home.
And I’m starting to wonder if maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
Then I hear it.
His name.
Not said.
Not whispered.
Laughed.
A sultry, throaty kind of laugh—the kind that slides down skin like silk and sin.
I already know before I turn.
But I still turn.
Because I’m a glutton for pain.
Because part of me still thinks he’ll look at me like I’m the only one.
He isn’t looking at me.
He’s got someone else in his lap.
She’s straddling him effortlessly, arms draped around his shoulders, mouth brushing his ear like she’s whispering filth just for him. Blonde hair like spun gold. Champagne skin. Pink lips that fake innocence.
The dress—God.
Red.
Silk.
Barely-there straps sliding off her shoulders like she’s mid-undress.
Devastating.
The kind of woman men like him choose.
