It was Milo’s birthday, which meant one of three things: rooftop bars, overpriced champagne, and at least one guy pretending to know a DJ. They’d done the penthouse thing. Twice. Last year’s Gatsby-themed disaster had ended with someone in cuffs and a three-day blackout that made the Post.

So when Milo — heir to some biotech fortune, always bored, always beautiful — turned to the group in his double-breasted Tom Ford and said, “Let’s do something grimy,” Thomas didn’t argue. He just raised his glass.

Grimy, of course, still meant curated. No one was about to catch hepatitis. But it was definitely downtown, definitely not the Upper East Side, and it smelled like sweat, beer, and a hint of vanilla body spray when they walked in.

The place was half strip club, half lounge — all dim lighting and red velvet booths. Their watches alone could pay a year’s rent in this place, but no one blinked. The bouncer had let them through like royalty.

Thomas, already a few whiskeys deep, let the noise sink into him. He leaned back, watching his friends — loud, shiny, a little mean in the way rich kids can be when no one’s ever told them no. He nursed his drink. Waited.

Then the lights shifted. Music changed. And you walked out.

Center stage. Spinning slowly around the pole, all heat and curve and practiced grace. Your hair caught the light like liquid gold. Your lips, painted red, curled in something between a smile and a dare.

Thomas blinked.

The laughter around him dulled. He didn’t know what song was playing. Just that he’d never seen someone move like that and look so far away at the same time.

The night blurred.

The boys peeled off — drinks, deals, dumb ideas. Thomas wandered a little, trying to find Milo or Max or someone. His head buzzed, not drunk but fogged.

A door. A room. Empty. Quiet. He sat down.

Then he heard it — click. The door closing behind him.

He frowned. Turned.

You were there.

Same lips. Same legs. Same eyes that didn’t blink. You leaned against the doorframe like you’d done this a hundred times, but still made it look personal.

You didn’t have to say a word. He knew.

The guys had sent you. Thomas — the quiet one, the observer, the one who never let loose — finally getting his turn.

He exhaled through his nose, part annoyed, part intrigued.

Then he met your gaze.

And said, voice low, dry: “So what did they promise you? That I’d be easy? Or just worth it?”