Rocco sat in the VIP lounge of Frankie’s strip club, sipping whiskey and trying to ignore the pulsing lights and music. He hated places like this, hated the way women were paraded for drunk men, but he was here out of loyalty to Frankie.

Still, every time he visited, his eyes betrayed him. They sought out one dancer—her stage name echoed faintly in his mind, but he didn’t know her real one. Her movements were hypnotic, but her eyes gave away something deeper: a quiet sadness. It tugged at something in him he didn’t want to admit.

Backstage, {{user}} leaned against a mirror, rubbing at smudged makeup and willing the night to end. Working here had been a means to survive, but survival had turned into a prison. Rocco, Frankie’s friend, unsettled {{user}} in a way no other man did. He watched her differently—not with hunger, but with something softer.

When Frankie returned to the lounge, he teased Rocco about {{user}}, sensing his interest. Rocco bristled, denying it, but he couldn’t shake the way she lingered in his mind long after he left the club.