1 The night of my graduation, the freshman who’d been chasing me for six months got me drunk and lured me to his bed. When I woke up, he was smiling. “You weren’t just with me last night,” he told me. Soon after, photos of me in bed with a group of strange, middle-aged men went viral online. The caption read: “Shared Sugar Baby: Now Taking Appointments.” When I confronted him, his voice was laced with ice. “Isn’t your mother a professional homewrecker? As her daughter, you naturally had to one-up her.” The night my mother saw the news, she had a stroke. When she woke up, her mind was forever trapped at the age of eight. To support her, I became the star attraction at a downtown nightclub, the queen of the midnight stage. Eight years later, as I writhed under the hazy lights, I looked up and saw a pair of familiar eyes in a VIP booth. ... Sweat slicked my skin as I danced, the cold metal of the pole a searing line against my inner thigh with every spin. A raw, familiar pain. After eight years, my skin still hadn't gotten used to the friction. But I couldn't stop. Every cheer from the crowd was a potential bill paid, another dose of the medication my mother needed tomorrow. I spun, inverted, and split my legs. And then, in the middle of a difficult backbend, my eyes slammed into his. My body faltered. I lost my grip and plummeted from more than six feet up. I hit the stage hard. A sharp, drilling pain shot through my ankle. The crowd erupted in jeers and crude laughter. “What the hell was that?” “If you can’t dance, get off the stage!” The manager rushed forward, bowing and scraping apologies to the audience while grabbing my arm. He hissed through clenched teeth, “Stella! What the hell was that? You trying to get fired?!” “Do you have any idea how many people are watching? If you ruin the club’s reputation, can you afford to pay for it?!” I clutched my swelling ankle, my entire body trembling with pain. I looked back toward the VIP booth, but the familiar eyes were gone. Had I imagined it? “What are you gawking at? Get the hell backstage!” the manager barked, snapping me back to reality. I bit my lip and limped off the stage. Back in the cluttered dressing room, I had just sat down when a busboy shoved the door open. “Manager says because of your screw-up, you’re not getting paid for tonight,” he said flatly. “What?” I looked up, my heart sinking. “Nothing? But my mother has a physical therapy appointment the day after tomorrow.” I grabbed his arm, my voice pleading. “Can you please talk to him for me? I’ll be more careful next time. I swear it will never happen again!” He shook my hand off, his face a mask of disgust. “It’s no use begging. He’s furious. Besides, it was your own damn fault for not paying attention.” He spun around and left, slamming the door behind him. I sank back into the chair, the pain in my ankle mingling with the panic rising in my chest. Therapy bills, medication costs, rent… The numbers spun in my head, suffocating me. If I didn't get paid tonight, my mother’s therapy would have to be postponed. Just as I was drowning in despair, the door opened again. It was the manager. His expression had softened slightly. “Stella, come with me. A client in a VIP room asked for you. A private performance. Double pay.” My stomach dropped. I knew exactly what a “private performance” meant. A closed room, expensive liquor, and hands that didn't know boundaries. I had always avoided it. But then I thought of my mother’s therapy, of the bills piling up, and I hesitated. “What? You don’t want to?” The manager raised an eyebrow. “Fine. But if you refuse, you can forget about your base salary for the month, too.” “I’ll do it,” I said, my voice tight. I had already fallen this far. What right did I have to be picky? The manager’s smile was triumphant. “That’s more like it. You’re in this line of work. No need to pretend you’re a saint. Now hurry up and change. Don’t keep the client waiting.” I pulled a conservative black slip dress from the locker, threw a thin jacket over it, and followed him to the VIP section. When he opened the door to the private room, the manager’s face instantly transformed into a fawning grin. “Mr. Wallace, here she is. This is our star, Stella.” I followed his gaze, preparing to force a smile, but my expression froze. 2 Seated in the main armchair was the face I had seen from the stage. Caden. So I hadn’t been imagining things. It had been eight years. He was no longer the fresh-faced freshman who used to follow me around campus. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, his eyes sharp and steady, exuding the unmistakable aura of a Hollywood star. And I… I was a nightclub dancer, selling my body for money. The shame lasted only a second. I quickly composed myself. I didn't have the luxury of feelings anymore. As instructed, I walked to the small stage in the center of the room and began to move to the music. I plastered a seductive smile on my face, even as sweat dripped into my eyes, stinging them. When the song ended, there was a smattering of applause. Caden, who had been silent the whole time, finally spoke. His voice was laced with a chilling mockery. “Stella. Eight years, and this is what you’ve become. Impressive.” The room fell silent. The others, sensing the tension, chimed in. “Caden, you know her?” Caden picked up his wine glass, his eyes sweeping over me with disdain. “Not really. We went to the same university. I just had the misfortune of hearing about her… glorious achievements back then.” He drew out the words “glorious achievements,” and the men around him chuckled with knowing smirks. “Well, if she’s an old friend of yours, she should give us a proper show, right?” one of them jeered. “How about a striptease to liven things up?” My body went rigid, and the color drained from my face. “I’m sorry, I… I don’t do that.” “Don’t do that?” the man with the gold chain laughed. “We’re all here to have a good time, why the act? You dance well, and we’ll make it worth your while.” He pulled a thick wad of cash from his wallet and slapped it on the glass table. The others followed suit, and soon a small mountain of money was piled on the table. The bills glittered under the dim lights, a tempting, filthy sheen. All I could see were hospital invoices, my mother’s childlike eyes, and the urgent voice of the nurse on the phone. The seconds ticked by. The mood in the room shifted from anticipation to impatience. “Are you gonna dance or not? If not, get the hell out!” someone shouted. Caden just sat there, sipping his wine, a king watching a spectacle from his throne. And I was the sacrifice on the altar. My nails dug into my palms, the pain the only thing keeping me grounded. I gave a slow, deliberate nod. The music started again, slower and more provocative this time. I reached up and untied my hair, letting it fall around my shoulders. Then, with trembling fingers, I reached for the zipper on the side of my dress. The sound of it sliding down was quiet but deafening. The dress slipped from my shoulders, revealing the thin, black lace bra underneath. The air conditioning was cold, raising goosebumps on my skin. I moved mechanically, trying to cover myself with my arms, which only earned me more excited whistles. Just as my shaking hand reached for the clasp of my bra— “That’s enough,” Caden said, his brow furrowed. Everything stopped. I stood frozen, the dress half-off, pooled around my elbows. He stood up and looked down at me, his disgust unconcealed. “A leopard never changes its spots. Just like your mother—you’ll do anything for a price.” He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him. With Caden gone, the others lost interest and began to leave. I quickly pulled my jacket tight around me, hugging myself as I stood there, stunned. Just then, the producer, Mr. Wallace, walked over to me. He tucked a business card into the top of my dress, his voice greasy. “Stella, right? You’ve got a great body. And you can really move.” He leaned in close, his breath reeking of alcohol. “I’m working on a new project. Looking for actors who are… adventurous. Willing to get creative. Give me a call if you’re interested. The price is negotiable.”
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