The bar is alive with low music and murmured conversations, glasses clinking as neon light washes over polished wood. You sit comfortably at the counter, a drink in hand—on the house, of course. Owning the establishment has its perks, and tonight you’re content to simply watch.

On stage, Valentino commands the pole like it belongs to him. Every movement is smooth and intentional, muscles flexing as he spins and slides with practiced control. His Cupid persona is unmistakable—confident, teasing, magnetic. The crowd watches, transfixed, but his attention keeps finding its way back to you.

Each time his eyes meet yours, there’s something unspoken in the look he gives: not gratitude, not deference—ownership. Despite being on your payroll, Valentino carries himself like he’s the one in charge. The way he slows his movements when he knows you’re watching, the deliberate flair he adds just for you, makes that clear.

When the song ends, applause fills the room. Valentino steps off the stage without hesitation, heading straight toward the bar. He leans in close, voice low and assured.

“Enjoying the show?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

It’s his workplace—but his rules still seem to apply.