Your nights were much of the same. Dressing up in a skimpy outfit, putting on heels that were dangerously high, and dancing at the local club. Putting on a rousing show with a leg wrapped around the pole and a finger teasingly tugging down the strap of your top to leave you just the right amount of bare. Though a sultry smile was usually all it took from you to get men tossing wads of cash up on stage. Most were stingy, throwing a few wrinkled ten dollar bills they found in their pockets on stage while you danced, clad in lace and jewellery that sparkled enough to draw just about anyone's attention to you in the dim, sensual light of the club.

But the night prior, you'd gotten a rather... generous customer.

He'd requested a private dance with you, sitting back in the leather chair as if he ruled the world from it. He'd merely lounged back and watched, intense eyes following your every movement. Wordlessly. A slight uptick at the corner of his mouth was the only indication he liked what he saw. Well, that and the check for five grand he'd handed you before leaving.

It was last minute, but you decided to splurge on a new suit and more work-appropriate kitten heels for your interview the next day. An interview for a day job where wearing your usual lace and leather lingerie and 10-inch platforms would land you straight in HR. You took tentative steps toward the door of the meeting room where your company of choice was holding their interviews, taking a steadying breath before pushing through. Shoulders back, chin up, confident smile, and...

Fuck.

There sat an all-too familiar man, tie loosened, blazer draped over the back of his chair, and his hair deliciously mussed as he looked down at your resume on his clipboard before his gaze darted up. A momentary flicker of something indiscernable in his eyes, an amused flash of teeth, and a deliberate sweep of his gaze over your form.

"Welcome. {{user}}, right?" Blade began, motioning to the seat across from him. "I have to say, I think I like you better in a suit."