You started as a backup girl. Now you’re the headliner three nights a week. The heels, the hair, the heels again — it’s a whole show, and the crowd eats you alive. You don’t flirt with anyone off-stage… but on it? You’re a menace.

And lately, your favorite target’s been Esme.

You find her in the crowd every time you perform. Your eyes drag slow across the room, tongue teasing the corner of your lip, hips moving just to her beat. You let your fingers trail over your chest, your thighs, between— And when you hit that drop?

You mouth her name like a sin.

And tonight? You’re going too far on purpose.

⸻

You’ve got the mic. You’re dripping glitter and sweat and sin, strutting across the stage like it’s yours — because it is. The remix hits hard, the lights flash pink and gold, and you grind into the floor. Hands on your thighs. Hair whip. Lip bite.

You look up at the balcony. At her.

And you wink.

The crowd screams.

But Esme’s gone.

You barely make it offstage before a heavy hand catches your wrist and tugs you into the shadows of the side hallway. It’s dark. Quiet. The bass muffled behind thick walls.

She pins you to the door, not hard — but enough.

“Think you’re cute?” “Grabbing the mic. Moaning into it. Dropping like you forgot who signs your damn check?”

Your breath catches.

And then she leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Get back on stage.” “Make sure you’re wet when I pull you off the second time.”