I lose myself in the movement, muscle memory taking over. The routine flows from one move to the next, my body remembering the grace I found in those pole dancing classes last year.
Then comes the moment I’ve been dreading and anticipating in equal measure.
Time to bare myself to a room full of strangers.
I’ve already kicked off my heels. Now for the dress. I turn around, working the mesh up my body slowly, letting the cool air hit my skin as the crowd’s energy shifts. The hooting and hollering grows louder, and something unexpected happens.
I feel powerful.
Not degraded or ashamed like I thought I would. Powerful. These men want something from me, and I’m the one controlling how much they get. I’m the one setting the terms.
With every move, I remember why that name fits.Temptress.They want what I’m giving, but only I decide how much they can have.
I glance over my shoulder, actually looking at the crowd for the first time. The place is packed, dozens of faces watching me eagerly as I continue to peel away my dress.
Most of them blur together, but for a split second I swear I feel one pair of eyes pin me to the stage. The sensation jolts me, hot and unsettling. I look away before I can search for the source.
Ten minutes ago, the idea of this many eyes on me would have sent me running. Now?
Now I feel like I’m in control.
That feeling carries me through the rest of the routine. I spend most of the song in my lingerie, but at the end, I drop to my knees near the edge of the stage and unclasp my bra, exposing my breasts just as the final notes fade.
The cheering is immediate and loud. Money flies onto the stage—fives, tens, even a few twenties. The sight of that cash puts everything into sharp perspective.
This is why I’m here.
I’m quick to gather the bills, then scurry off stage clutching my discarded clothes to my chest. Without the distraction of music and movement, self-consciousness threatens to creep in, but the weight of money in my hands keeps me focused on what matters.
As I head backstage, my mind is already working, cataloging what I learned. The crowd responded best when I made eye contact, when I smiled instead of looking nervous. The moves that brought me closest to the edge of the stage earned the most tips.
This isn’t about being a victim or selling my dignity. I’m providing a service that people want to pay for, and to my surprise, I think I could be good at it. I’ve found a way to use my body, my intelligence, and my ability to perform to solve my financial problems.
The dressing room is empty when I walk in, most of the other girls probably out on the floor offering lap dances. I grab my robe from my duffle bag and count my tips while I get dressed.
Eighty-three dollars. For one song.
I’m still processing that number when the door opens. I look up expecting to see another dancer, but my entire world tilts sideways.
My chest seizes. My hands go cold. In the doorway is the man who once saved me and ruined me in the same night.
Alessio.
8
ALESSIO
I’m not payingattention to the stage tonight.
I can’t focus on anything except the screwup with our alcohol order. Twice the vodka I requested, half the beer we need. I’ve spent the last hour on calls, and my patience is wearing thin.
“Mr. DeLuca, I understand your frustration, but Saturday deliveries require?—”
“Listen carefully.” My voice cuts through his stammering. “You’re going to find a truck, load it with what I ordered, and have it here by nine a.m. Sharp.”
Silence stretches across the line. Then: “Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. We’ll make this right.”
That’s better. I end the call and finally leave my office for the main floor. An act just finished, and the crowd’s worked up as expected. Drinks flowing, greasy bar food scattered across tables.
