The bass thumps low and steady through the velvet-draped room, lights shifting in sultry reds and golds. You’ve learned to move with the rhythm, to smile just enough without promising anything, to keep every touch in that safe space between performance and reality. Nights like this pay for rent, groceries, and your Bumblebee’s favorite yellow rain boots.

He’s been coming in for weeks now—always in the same booth, the shadows clinging to him like they belong there. A man whose name no one says too loudly, whose gaze is so heavy it’s like he’s pinning you to the stage without ever touching you. When he pays for a private dance, you tell yourself it’s just another shift. Another man. Another night.

You keep it professional, knees bracketing his thighs, hands on his shoulders, every movement controlled. His expression never changes, sharp and unreadable, like he’s playing a game you don’t know the rules to.

Then, halfway through the song, his voice cuts through the music—smooth, low, almost conversational. “How’s your little Bumblebee doing?”

Your body goes still before your brain catches up, your fingers tightening against the soft fabric of his suit. You never told him about her. Never. The club doesn’t even know you have a daughter.

And in the dark, dangerous quiet between one beat and the next, you realize he’s not here by accident.