I’m the girl who grew up swallowing blood like communion, who learned to weaponise her smile, who never let a man see her flinch again, not even when he shoved my face into the carpet and said, I told you not to speak, doll.
So I tip my glass to the dark, to whoever’s out there, to whoever thinks they can watch me and make me nervous, and I smile, because I hope he tries, because I hope he comes.
The pink drink burns, too sweet, too fake, like the version of me I let people see, and I check the time again, midnight, past the point of decent and before the hour when things get ugly.
This is when the wrong men come out, the ones who tip too well and touch too long, the ones who think no is a challenge, the ones who never look me in the eyes, because I never let them.
Until tonight.
“New girl,” Stacey says, sliding into the booth like glittered smoke, fishnets ripped at the thigh, make-up smudged with sweat, looking like a nightmare you tip too much to forget. “VIP room. Wanna come?”
I blink at her. “Why the fuck would I want that?”
“Because you’re not here for the drinks, princess.” She grins, teeth like a threat. “And he asked for you.”
My spine locks.
“What?”
She leans in, voice low. “Didn’t give a name. Just said pink lipstick, back booth. Said he’s been waiting weeks.” She hums, teasing. “You got a regular I don’t know about, Tink?”
I don’t answer, because my heart is already beating too hard, because someone’s been watching, because this isn’t random.
I glance at the bouncer, who doesn’t even look up, too busy laughing at some suit near the stage, and I know I could scream and no one would hear me.
“What happens if I say no?” I ask.
Stacey shrugs. “Then I send someone else in and tell him the girl he wanted flaked.”
And something in me snaps, not rage, not fear, but curiosity, sharp and dangerous.
Why now? Why me? Why tonight?
I should run.
Instead, I follow.
The hallway smells like cheap cologne and old cum, the carpet sticks to my boots, and Stacey doesn’t talk as she leads me past doors I never meant to walk through, stopping outside the last one, no number, no sign, just black.
“He’s inside,” she says. “Alone.”
I open my mouth.
She’s already gone.
I hesitate, one second, two, three, and then I push open the door.
It’s cold inside, quiet, low light, no music, no mirrors, just a velvet couch, a glass of untouched whisky on the table, and him.
He’s sitting in the shadowed corner like a ghost you summoned wrong, legs spread, one arm resting over the back of the couch, the other?—
The other is a hook.
Not costume, not cheap, surgical, polished steel curved like it was designed to gut someone slow.
He doesn’t move when I walk in, doesn’t blink, doesn’t smile, just looks at me like I’m something he already owns.
“Wrong room,” I say, even though I know it’s not.
