I kept my pace brisk. There wasn’t a part of this neighborhood I hadn’t memorized in the last few months. Cipher, The Sacrifice, and Playwrights Haven were all within a thirty-minute walk from my apartment, and that wasn’t a coincidence. I’d picked the job at Cipher because I could hoof it everywhere I needed to go from Hell’s Kitchen to the Theater District. No cabfares. No subway tokens. Just my feet and a pair of sneakers with more mileage on them than my uncle’s pickup.
Hell’s Kitchen was a different world from the foothills of Tennessee. No one said good morning on the sidewalk. No one waved at passing cars. My roommates and the others on the floor of the apartment building where I lived—three dancers, two bartenders, an actor, and one terrifying dominatrix named Bambi—were the loudest, wildest bunch I’d ever known. And I adored them. But it was a far cry from what I was used to.
Like most people in the city, I didn’t have a car; I walked everywhere. Morning or midnight. Rain or shine. I knew which alleys shaved off five minutes and which buildings you could cut through if you nodded politely at the security guards. There was something about walking that made me feel grounded, like I belonged here. Like I wasn’t just some small-town girl pretending I had a place in the city that never stopped moving.
And today? Today the sun was shining and my dreams were only a few blocks away.
As I approached Playwrights Haven, I didn’t slow down, weaving through foot traffic with the precision of someone who’d nearly been clipped by taxis enough times to learn. My mind was focused on a singular goal. Today I had a shot at snagging an understudy role inCity Song, an off-Broadway musical I’d been eyeing for months. Not a lead. Not even a solo. But it was work. A start. A sliver of a dream.
This was what I’d come to Manhattan for.
Not the grit. Not the rent checks that made me gag. Not the late-night panic attacks I got when the roaches in the walls grew braver than they should’ve. No, I came here for stage lights and curtain calls. For the music. For the magic. For the chance to be someone.
Back in Cosby, they said I had “spotlight fever”—that I was born loud, dramatic, and destined for something bigger than ourtiny town. They said it with pride, like maybe someday I’d do something bigger than talent shows and church solos.
At Sunday service, they’d clapped when I sang. At the county fair, they’d cheered when I danced. And at the Dixie Stampede, they’d gasped when I’d flown on silks twenty feet in the air.
But applause didn’t pay rent, and no one in Tennessee was ever gonna hand me a Broadway contract. So I’d packed a suitcase, kissed my grandpa goodbye, and hopped on a bus to the city that chewed people up and spit them out with a sneer.
What they don’t tell you about show business in the Big Apple is that talent alone won’t get you through those audition doors. It takes stubbornness. Sacrifice. And yeah—sometimes it means walking six blocks in shoes with busted soles just to save the subway fare.
A man slammed into me without warning, nearly knocking me off the sidewalk. My backpack slid down my arm, and I stumbled, my knees slamming onto the pavement. My jeans tore wider at the hole, and a smear of blood bloomed beneath the frayed fabric.
“Hey!” I shouted, but the man didn’t stop. Didn’t even turn his head.
Welcome to New York.
I hissed through my teeth, brushing off my palms and standing. My knee throbbed, and grit clung to the blood, but I limped on, teeth clenched, stomach growling.
“Perfect,” I muttered. “Just what I needed.”
Undeterred, I continued, weaving through the crowds, determined not to let anything knock the wind out of me—not a clumsy pedestrian with zero awareness, not this industry that chewed up girls like me for breakfast, and definitely not that Russian asshole from Cipher who acted like he owned the world and talked to me like I was furniture.
He was gorgeous, smug, and probably pure evil. His voice still echoed in my ears. But I wouldn’t let a man like that—no matter how cut from marble and dipped in menace he was—be the reason I bombed my audition.
By the time I made it to Playwrights, the line was already halfway down the block. People were pressed tightly along the front of the building, trying not to block the sidewalk too much. Most of them clutched portfolios containing their headshots and résumés. Some were stretching or quietly, humming scales. Everyone was sizing each other up. I slipped into the back of the line and adjusted my backpack, trying to ignore the ache in my knee.
I squared my shoulders. I was going to get this part. I had to.
Still, the sight of the line tugged at the corner of my hope. This was a lot of competition. I’d been to dozens of auditions during the last six months. I’d been called back four times. Hired zero.
I glanced at my phone. It looked like I’d be cutting it close for my shift at The Sacrifice.
That place… God, I hated it.
Technically, I wasn’t a stripper. I didn’t grind on laps or hustle VIP booths for cash. But I still performed half-naked under dim lights for men who paid to ogle flesh. Only difference was—I did it ten feet off the ground. I was an aerialist. A flying pole dancer. Every routine was a mix of raw power and dangerous grace. My body moved with purpose, its trained muscles and bruised skin wrapped around silicone-coated steel, barefoot and flawless under the heat of a spotlight. Each swing across the stage or slow arc over the crowd was a kind of airborne seduction—fluid, hypnotic, impossible to look away from. The drunks watched slack-jawed as I spun, twisted, and contorted midair, my body slick with effort, dressed in little more than a glitzy bikini, holding poses that made every muscle burn. To them, itwas foreplay. To the club, it was money. They called itartistic erotica. I called itbarely tolerable.
The club was seedy, the clientele worse.
But the pay? It was good. Really good.
Rent in this city didn’t care how many morals you had. So I made it work.
At the moment, the clock was ticking, and the pressure was starting to squeeze in on me. If this audition ran long, I’d have to sprint just to get to the club on time—bruised knee, tired muscles, and all. And I’d do it, like always, because no matter how much I hated that place, I needed the paycheck.
My stomach growled in protest, reminding me just how famished I was. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. But, looking at the long line, I knew there’d be no time for food. And maybe that was for the best. It saved money. I could splurge on a real meal if—when—I got that callback.
Chapter three
