On graduation night, the college underclassman who had been chasing me for six months got me dead drunk and tricked me into bed. But when I woke up, he smiled and told me: "You didn't just sleep with me last night." Immediately after, photos of me in bed with a group of strange, middle-aged men went viral all over the internet. The caption read: "Shared sugar baby, employed right upon graduation." I went to confront him, only to be met with his icy, venomous words: "Isn't your mother's favorite hobby being a homewrecker? As her daughter, it's only natural you surpass her." The night my mom saw the trending hashtag, she was so furious and devastated that she suffered a massive stroke. When she woke up, her cognitive abilities were permanently stuck at the age of eight. To keep my mom alive, I became the reigning queen of pole dancing at a local nightclub. Eight years later, twisting my waist under the blinding neon lights, I looked up—and saw those familiar eyes sitting in the VIP booth. ...... I was sweating profusely on stage. As my inner thighs gripped the rapidly spinning metal pole, the friction burned like fire. It had been eight years, but my skin still hadn't adapted to the brutal friction. But I didn't dare stop. Every cheer from the crowd below could turn into cash, and that cash would turn into my mom's specialty medication tomorrow. Spin. Invert. Split. Right as I executed a high-difficulty backward drop, my gaze slammed violently into a pair of eyes in the crowd. My movements faltered, and I plummeted straight down from the ten-foot pole. "Bang!" I hit the hard floor solidly, a piercing agony shooting up from my ankle. Boos erupted from the crowd, mixed with vulgar, mocking laughter. "What the hell was that?!" "If you can't dance, get off the damn stage!" Rick, the floor manager, rushed up in a panic. He bowed and apologized to the crowd while violently yanking me to my feet, hissing through gritted teeth: "Chloe! Do you have a fucking death wish?!" "Do you know how many people are watching tonight? If you ruin this club's reputation, can you afford to pay for it?!" I clutched my rapidly swelling ankle, trembling from the pain. I looked up toward the VIP booth again, but the familiar eyes I had just seen were gone. Had I imagined it? "What are you standing around for? Get the hell backstage!" Rick's scolding snapped me back to reality. I gritted my teeth and limped off the stage. Back in the messy dressing room, I had barely sat down when a waiter pushed the door open and threw a cold sentence at me: "Rick said you caused a major accident tonight. Your entire pay for the shift is docked." "What?" I jerked my head up, my heart plummeting. "All of it? But my mom has physical therapy the day after tomorrow!" Getty Images Khám phá I grabbed the waiter's arm, my voice laced with begging. "Can you please help me beg Rick? I promise I'll be careful next time, it will never happen again!" The waiter shook off my hand with a look of disgust. "Begging won't help. He's pissed." "Besides, you're the one who messed up on stage. Who else is there to blame?" He turned and left, slamming the door so hard the walls shook. I collapsed back into my chair, the throbbing in my ankle mixing with the sheer panic in my chest. Therapy bills, medication costs, rent... a mountain of bills swirled in my head, suffocating me. If I didn't get paid tonight, my mom's therapy would have to be delayed. Just as I was drowning in despair, the dressing room door opened. Rick walked in, his face slightly softer than before. "Chloe, come with me. The guests in the Diamond Room specifically requested you for a private show. Double pay." My heart skipped a beat. I knew exactly what a private show entailed. A closed door, expensive alcohol, and hands that didn't care about boundaries. I had always avoided them like the plague. But thinking of my mom's therapy bills, thinking of the debt collectors, I hesitated. "What? You don't want to?" Rick raised an eyebrow. "That's fine. But don't expect your base salary this month either." "I'll go." I gritted my teeth. I had already fallen this far. What right did I have to be picky? Rick smiled in satisfaction. "That's more like it. You're already in this line of work, why pretend to be some pure saint?" "Hurry up and change. Don't keep the guests waiting." I dug a conservative black slip dress out of my locker, wrapped a thin cardigan over it, and followed Rick down the hall to the Diamond Room. Pushing the door open, Rick immediately slapped on a sycophantic smile: "Marcus, I brought her. This is our top girl, Chloe." I followed Rick's gaze, trying to force a polite smile, but my eyes instantly froze. Sitting in the center of the plush leather sofa was the exact face I had seen from the stage. Liam Vance. I hadn't imagined it. Eight years had passed, and he was no longer the green, lovesick college underclassman who used to follow me around. Dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his features were sharp and composed, exuding the untouchable aura of an A-list Hollywood actor. And I had become a cheap nightclub pole dancer. The humiliation lasted only a second before I shoved my emotions down. The current me didn't have the luxury of pride. Following Rick's instructions, I stepped onto the small stage in the center of the room and began moving to the music. I kept a flattering smile plastered on my face, even as sweat dripped into my eyes, stinging them painfully. When the song ended, sparse applause echoed in the room. Liam, who hadn't spoken a word the entire time, finally opened his mouth. His voice dripped with bone-chilling mockery: "Chloe. Eight years later, and you've really come up in the world." The room went dead silent. The men beside him immediately noticed the tension and asked with amused curiosity: "Liam, do you know her?" Liam picked up his glass of red wine, his gaze sweeping over me with contempt. "Not really. We just went to the same college. I had the privilege of hearing all about her 'glorious exploits' back then." He placed a heavy, loaded emphasis on the words glorious exploits. The men around him immediately exchanged knowing, dirty laughs. "Well, since she's an old alum of our famous leading man, shouldn't she give us a real show?" A man with a thick gold chain jeered: "Do a striptease for us! Liven things up!" My body went rigid, all the color draining from my face. "I'm sorry... I... I don't do that kind of dance." "Don't do it?" The gold-chain man scoffed. "You work at a club, stop acting like a prude! Dance well, and we'll reward you." He pulled a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and slammed it onto the glass table. The others followed suit. Soon, a small mountain of cash piled up on the table. Under the dim, hypnotic lights, that money radiated a filthy, irresistible allure. In my mind, I saw the hospital's overdue notices, my mom's innocent, childlike eyes, and the impatient voices of the nurses. As the seconds ticked by, the anticipation in the room soured into impatience. "Are you gonna strip or not? If not, get the hell out!" someone shouted. Liam just sat there, leisurely sipping his wine. He was the high-and-mighty spectator, and I was the meat on the chopping block, waiting to be sold to the highest bidder. My fingernails dug so deeply into my palms that the pain was the only thing keeping me conscious. I gave a slow, barely perceptible nod. The music started again, a heavier, more suggestive beat. I reached up and pulled out my hair tie, letting my long hair cascade down my back. Then, with trembling fingers, I reached for the zipper on the side of my dress. The sound of the metal teeth sliding down was quiet but deafening to my ears. The dress slipped off my shoulders, revealing the thin black lace bra underneath. The AC was blasting, raising a field of goosebumps across my bare skin. I moved mechanically, instinctively trying to cover myself with my arms, which only earned louder, more excited catcalls. Just as my trembling hands reached around to unhook my bra— "That's enough," Liam said, his brow furrowed in deep disgust. Every sound and movement in the room stopped instantly. I stood frozen on the stage, the half-removed dress hanging off the crook of my arm. He stood up, looking down at me as if I were a cockroach. "A dog really can't change its nature. You're exactly like your mother. As long as there's money, you'll spread your legs for anyone." With that, he turned and walked out. The heavy door slammed shut behind him. With Liam gone, the rest of the men lost their interest. They grabbed their coats, preparing to leave. I hastily pulled my dress back up, wrapping my cardigan tightly around myself, standing awkwardly with my head bowed. Before leaving, Producer Marcus Thorne suddenly approached me. He shoved a business card down the front of my dress, his breath reeking of expensive liquor. "Miss Chloe, right? You've got a spectacular body, and you know how to move it." He leaned in, his eyes wandering sleazily over my chest. "I'm casting a new project. We need actors willing to be... bold. Create some truly 'artistic' adult films." "If you're interested, give me a call. The pay is highly negotiable." The door clicked shut. The room was finally empty. I looked up and numbly wiped a tear from my cheek. I walked over to the table and picked up the scattered hundred-dollar bills, gently smoothing out their creases, stacking them neatly. I counted them twice. It was exactly $5,500. I did the math in my head. My mom's specialty meds for next month—the best imported brand—cost $1,200 a vial. I could buy four vials right now. That left $700. Winter was coming, and last year she kept complaining her feet were cold. I could buy her a thick pair of UGG boots and a warm down jacket. The radiator in our apartment was always breaking. When I looked at it that way... tonight was actually completely worth it. It was just being looked at, touched a few times, and enduring insults I'd already heard a thousand times over. I survived it. Compared to the cold, merciless numbers on a hospital bill, what was a little lost dignity? I pushed myself up on my numb knees, carefully stashing the thick wad of cash into my bag. As I turned to leave, my peripheral vision caught the business card lying on the edge of the carpet. I stopped at the doorway, my hand resting on the freezing doorknob. The doctor had told me there was a specialized neuro-hospital in New York that could completely cure my mom's cognitive damage. But the surgery cost was astronomical: $100,000. To me, it was an impossible sum. What kind of "film" could Marcus Thorne possibly want me for? Obviously, it was going to be cheap, degrading, explicit trash. But if shooting one film meant I could walk away with $100,000, what did I have left to lose? My body had already been ruined and dirtied eight years ago, hadn't it? What difference did it make if it got a little dirtier? As long as I got that $100,000. I took a deep breath, turned around, walked back, and picked up the business card. A week later, I arrived at the address Marcus had given me. It was a secluded mansion up in the hills. There were barely any crew members—maybe three people total. Marcus greeted me with a sleazy smile, saying we needed to do a "costume test" first. His assistant handed me an outfit made of translucent mesh that barely qualified as lingerie. It covered almost nothing. Marcus directed the shoot himself, barking orders for me to strike degrading, provocative poses. "Arch your back... stick it out." "Look up, drop the strap off your shoulder." The blinding studio lights hit my skin, and my first instinct was to cross my arms over my chest. "Put your hands down. Act natural." "Yeah, turn around, dip your waist lower... part your legs a little more." "The eyes, give me bedroom eyes! Look at the lens and imagine you're desperate for it..." I was a puppet with its strings cut, mindlessly contorting into whatever suggestive positions he demanded. I swallowed my nausea and just kept repeating the number in my head: One hundred thousand... One hundred thousand... Once I got this money, my mom could have her surgery. After the shoot, Marcus personally walked me to the door. The moment I stepped out of the mansion, I bumped right into Liam, who was walking out holding a woman's hand. When he saw me, he froze dead in his tracks. Marcus quickly stepped forward with an obsequious grin. "Liam! What a coincidence, what brings you to the hills?" Liam ignored him. His eyes were locked onto me, staring with an intensity that felt like he was trying to flay me alive. The woman beside him broke the silence, her voice soft and polite. "Hello, Marcus." "And who might this be?" Marcus asked. Liam finally broke his stare, his tone softening as he introduced her: "This is Audrey. My fiancée."
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