Amelia smirks, her confidence a sharp contrast to my rambling self-doubt. “You bring a sort of… shyness,” she says with a knowing smile. “Innocence. People love that‘awkward new girl just discovering her sexuality’type vibe. It’s like catnip for them. Plus, this is breakout night. For most of the girls in the lineup it’s their first time stripping, too.”
Stripping. Right. Because that’s where I am right now. At a strip club in Hoboken, New Jersey with Amelia, my old law school classmate turned professional dancer.
Amelia and I graduated from Harvard Law a few years ago and while I walked straight into a cushy position at my father’s prestigious entertainment law firm—a birthright, really—Amelia took a different path.
She dove headfirst into criminal law, representing defendants who were part of New York City’s underground mafia and eventually introduced her to a world far removed from the courtroom.
That world led to stripping, and, as she gleefully explained to me over cocktails one night when we were catching up, it turned outto be both more fun and more lucrative than any high-profile law career in New York City could ever be.
And no, I’m not trading my juris doctorate, something I worked my ass off for, to become a stripper. My father would kill me.
This isn’t a career change. It’s more… an experiment. A chance to do something wildly out of character. To step away from my shiny, nepo-baby bubble and mingle with people I’d never meet in my usual circles. To see how the other half lives, because, frankly, I’ve lived my entire life tucked away in privilege. Silver spoon tucked so neatly in my mouth that I hardly noticed it until recently. Probably right around when my brother fell in love with Rhiannon Carpenter, a woman from a blue-collar family in Brookhaven, Connecticut where they own a used furniture thrift store, and decided to start a family with her.
For as long as I can remember, my life has been dictated by my father, Maxwell Prescott of theLaw Offices of Prescott & Associates Entertainment Lawyers. A self-made man in every sense of the word. My dad built his entertainment law firm from nothing during a time when social media was just starting to gain traction. After my mother, a famous actress fresh out of Hollywood, left him to raise two young kids on his own, he threw himself into work.
It was the early days of social media apps, back when people were becoming famous overnight with a single post or a song uploaded to the right platform.
Dad didn’t know the first thing about the entertainment industry, but he learned fast. He hunted down every rising star, every viral sensation, and made them his clients whether they thought they needed legal representation or not.
It was admirable, really, especially in a place like New York City, crawling with established lawyers already.
By the time I was old enough to understand his world, Maxwell Prescott wastheguy. The lawyer everyone wanted on both coasts.
But all that success came with rules. Rules for how Cain and I were supposed to live, act, and think. Rules for our futures.
College? No partying.
Social life? Carefully controlled.
Education? Harvard Law,obviously.
Mistakes? Absolutely not allowed.
So here I am, on a random night in New Jersey, about to step onstage of this club and do something so completely out of the Prescott playbook it would give my father a heart attack if he knew.
And maybe that’s part of the appeal. Good thing he’ll never find out.
Despite my love for the law, there are days like today where I’d give anything to be someone other thanRosie Anne Prescott, lawyer to the stars.
Two years as a junior partner, chasing the elusive senior title like my big brother earned, and somehow, I still feel caged in by my father and all his rules and expectations for me.
I adjust myself in my silk robe, rubbing at the lavender-colored lace bra and matching thong set that I put on fifteen minutes ago in one of the spare dressing rooms while I was waiting for Amelia to arrive.
“Okay, so you’re in purple, right?” Amelia asks for the second time, her voice calm and collected as if this were just another Tuesday night.
She’s been paired with me as a guide for performance—a tradition, apparently, where newbies are matched with a more seasoned dancer for their debut. It’s supposed to make the process less terrifying. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t. I'm sweating and my left foot won't stop bouncing. I wasn't even this nervous to take the bar or defend my most recent clients in court.
Amelia is also wearing purple tonight, though her outfit, if you can call it that, isn’t hidden beneath a robe. She’s standing confidently next to me, practically naked, in a deep royal purple ensemble that looks suspiciously crotchless and makes me look like I’m in a parka in comparison.
“Yes, lavender,” I confirm.
If Amelia feels the slightest bit self-conscious, she doesn’t show it. That’s the thing I learned quickly about dancers. It’s not about having a perfect body; it’s about having confidence with what you have. Because confidence can capture anyone’s attention andeverybody is a beautiful body.
It helps that I won’t have to take everything off tonight. Some dancers stick to lingerie, performing sensual routines without ever shedding another layer and still make thousands.
Not that I’m doing this for the money. Tonight isn’t about that. Tonight is about liberation.
Or maybe rebellion. Honestly, I’m not sure anymore. I just know I’m tired of carrying this innocence around like a badge I didn’t ask for. Tired of living under the weight of always being the “perfect, obedient daughter.”
