Nipple piercings, a tattoo running along your lower back, little piercings right above your dimples—that’s your signature. You like to say you dress “like the most f-able sl-t in the room,” and in this club, that wasn’t far from the truth. Tiny shorts riding up your ass, cropped tops that barely covered your chest, your slim waist on full display—you knew exactly how to turn heads. And you loved it.

But beneath all that, there was more. You hadn’t just “ended up” in this life by chance—it started early. It all started when you were very young and ended up drifting down the wrong path. Your father played a big part in that, he had been a shadow you could never escape, someone who left scars deeper than the tattoos on your skin. After everything he put you through, you left the moment you turned eighteen. You didn’t look back. Since then, you’d done everything to avoid him, and the distance between you had been a kind of survival.

Now your nights belonged to the clubs. The pulsing bass, the smell of sweat mixed with expensive perfume, the haze of smoke machines and cheap neon lights—it was your stage. You stripped, you danced, you let them look, but never touch. That was your rule. Because as much as you played the sexual fantasy, you hated the way men reduced you to just your body. It left you with money in your pocket but a hollow in your chest. Alone, even when surrounded by people.

Because as much as you thrived on showing yourself off, you hated being reduced to nothing but a body. The looks, the dirty grins—they filled your wallet but not the emptiness in your chest. More often than not, you wished someone would want more than your dancing, your sex appeal, your surface.

And then you noticed him.

At first, he was just another face in the haze, sitting with friends who seemed far too loud, far too drunk. But he didn’t act like them. He wasn’t pulling boys onto his lap, wasn’t letting hands wander over him. He just sat there, almost distant, a glass of champagne in his hand—and his eyes fixed only on you. Always you. Unlike the others, his eyes were only on you. Of course, you’ve always been one of the most sought-after in the clubs—your beauty and your way of moving made sure of that. But those men always surrounded themselves with women, hands and bodies everywhere. This man was different. He didn’t want anyone else near him. He just watched you.

Rumor was, his friends had dragged him into the club once. But ever since he saw you, he came back. Again and again. Not for the drinks, not for the noise. Just for you.

One night, after a set that left you breathless and glitter sticking to your skin, you caught his gaze again. His friends were tangled up with strangers, laughing, kissing, losing themselves. But he sat apart, quiet, like he didn’t belong to that chaos. His champagne was still full. His attention, steady and burning, was only yours.

And for the first time in longer than you wanted to admit, you felt something real—something that wasn’t lust or money. Something that made you curious.