That night, I made my escape. With nothing but a backpack stuffed with years of hoarded cash, I climbed out my bedroom window, slid through the one blind spot in the security system, and never looked back.
That was five years ago, and I’m sure they’ve been looking for me ever since. I know my disappearance was a humiliation they won’t let slide, and now with just a few hours left of what was to be my wedding day, I’m sure they’re doubling their efforts.
It doesn’t matter. They won’t find me.
Dancing lets me slip between identities. I don’t work long enough anywhere for questions to pile up. A false ID gets me in the door, and the nocturnal hours keep me out of the daylight, where recognition could ruin everything.
As I weave between tables, the soft, shifting lights sweep across the floor in waves of gold and crimson. The air carries the vibration of music, a steady undercurrent that wraps around the clink of glasses, the muted murmur of conversation, and the bursts of tipsy laughter drifting from the bar.
A man shifts in his seat, running his thumb along the rim of his whiskey glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. A dancer, wrapped in silver sequins, tosses her hair over her shoulder as she glides past with the effortless sway of someone who knows every eye is on her. It’s a dance floor, but not the kind most people picture—this is a carefully orchestrated exchange of money, power, and lust.
I pause to glance over the room. For a split second, the noise seems distant, like it’s pressing in from the edges instead ofsurrounding me. I shake the thought away, pulling my attention back to the task at hand.
“Focus,” I whisper under my breath.
I made my choice years ago when I climbed out of that window. They wanted me to be quiet, obedient, and complicit. Instead, I chose freedom. But more and more I feel like my freedom is slipping away, and I’m caught in an endless rotation of faces and R&B songs.
A light tap on my elbow pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to find one of the waitresses behind me.
“If you aren’t occupied, there’s a gentleman in VIP who’d like to meet you,” she says, her tone softer than the usual transactions I deal with.
I glance over my shoulder at her, raising an eyebrow. I don’t get these polite ones often. Most of them come across like they’ve been trained to treat us like pieces on a board.
"Oh, sorry, I’ve got a table I need to visit before I'm done for the night," I reply smoothly, not bothering to turn toward the VIP area she’s pointing to. I already know what VIP means: another conversation that starts with overpriced drinks, a lot of false promises, and a guy hoping I’ll let him buy me a few rounds just to get me stuck for the night. I don’t need that, not in the mood for it tonight.
Her smile falters a bit but stays intact as she gestures toward the men. “That’s unfortunate, these two seem like they’re here to spend some money.” She’s making the pitch, her words carefully chosen, though I see the slight shift in her gaze. The silent nudge that says she doesn’t really believe I’ll walk away.
“Yeah, sorry,” I answer, offering her a tight, apologetic look. I mean it. I don’t want to be that girl tonight. Not when I’m already drowning in my own thoughts.
She nods, still smiling, but her eyes betray a hint of disappointment before she turns to return to the men who probably have more than enough cash to keep her busy.
I let out a soft breath as I turn on my heel, heading for theman who promised me dances. The kind of quick exchange that earns me a straight five hundred and freedom. No lingering conversations, no shots to bury my brain in. Just money.
Lauren approaches me alone,her expression neutral, though I can tell she’s not bringing me the answer I wanted.
“Sorry, but she’s already occupied. Is there anyone else you’d like to request?”
Damn it. I exhale quietly, controlling the flicker of frustration that rises. “No, but thank you. Can you bring our tab?”
Lauren gives a small nod before turning to print our check.
“We’re leaving already?” Lars asks, peeling his attention away from the blonde grinding on his lap just long enough to register my words.
“We’ll be back tomorrow,” I say, my gaze flicking to the blonde, who looks less than thrilled. I offer her an appeasing smile.
The dancer leans back against Lars’s chest, and he leans forward, whispering something in her ear, eyes drifting down. Most likely a promise to spend more money tomorrow, or if he’s bold enough tonight, giving her his hotel room number. Either way, the coy smile she flashes tells me she’s willing to entertain it.
Lars loves women, but remains an equal opportunity individual when it comes to hook ups. He always has, relishing in attention from either sex, just as much as he thrives on their validation. He’s the charmer, the one with a line ready for anyone who’ll listen. It’s his nature, and more than that, it’s his luxury.He doesn’t carry the weight I do, the unrelenting scrutiny from everyone in the Syndicate.
They’re watching me constantly, judging my every move, and lately, their questions have started carrying a sharper edge. “When are you settling down?” and “It’s time to think about an heir.” The older men in the organization ask the questions with the same tone they’d use to ask about the next shipment, as if my personal life is just another piece of the business.
Lauren returns, placing a silver tray on the table with our receipt. My black AMEX sits beside it, heavy in its presence.
She hands me a small card. “If you come back, just show this at the door. There won’t be a cover, and I’ll host you here again.”
I slip the card into my pocket. “Thank you, Lauren. Sounds perfect. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
She nods. “Have a great night.”
