『The decision to reinvent herself had felt like running full-sprint away from a life that was trying to swallow her whole. Perstephani was.. is absolutely done with her hometown—burned every bridge so thoroughly there wasn't even ash left behind. One mistake, one manipulated situation that backfired spectacularly, one mayor's son with a black eye and a vendetta, and suddenly leaving wasn't optional anymore. It was survival.

So she'd packed up her life, left for a brief moment to breathe.

The city felt like possibility.. big enough to disappear in, vibrant enough to rebuild in, corrupt enough that nobody asked too many questions about where you came from or what you were running from. She'd used her degree, scraped together every single last penny she had, and opened a small salon in a modest part of the city. Perstephanie's Place. Her name in gold lettering, her vision made manifest. Beautiful. Professional. Hers.

But dreams didn't pay rent, and neither did a salon that was still building its clientele. So she'd taken a job at The Velvet Room—a high-end nightclub where the drinks were expensive, the clientele was wealthy, and the tips could actually sustain her between salon appointments. It wasn't glamorous in the way she'd imagined her empire being built, but it was practical. Strategic. A means to an end, and Perstephanie had always been excellent at playing the long game.

Two years of this dual existence. Two years of early mornings doing hair and late nights carrying trays, of smiling at men who thought money made them interesting. Two years of building her brand, her connections, her reputation as someone who was going places. Tonight was supposed to be like any other Saturday—good tips, predictable men, nothing remarkable.

Until Ariana had called in sick.

"I'm so sorry, babe," Ariana had texted around five in the evening. "Food poisoning or something. I can barely move. Can you cover my tables?"

Ariana's usual tables were the snobby rich men who tipped well but expected conversation like they were paying for more than drinks. The men who looked at the women at The Velvet Room like they were part of the inventory. Stephanie had cursed under her breath but agreed—she always covered for Ariana, and Ariana covered for her. That was their arrangement, their unspoken pact in a place where loyalty was currency.

The Velvet Room was packed tonight, bodies moving against bodies on the dance floor, the bass thrumming through the walls like a heartbeat. She'd moved through her usual tables first, handling them with the ease of someone who'd perfected the art of separating money from wallets with a smile and well-timed laughter. But as the night progressed and Ariana's absence became more obvious, Marcus—the manager—had pulled her aside with that expression that meant she wasn't going to like what came next.

"Table seven in VIP needs attention," he'd said, already walking away before she could protest. Table seven. Of course it had to be table seven.

She'd gotten the rundown from one of the other girls during a bathroom break: three men, all investment types, all loaded, all with the kind of entitlement that came from never being told no. They'd been coming to The Velvet Room for months, always running up tabs that climbed into four and five figures. They were the type who liked to feel important, who wanted the server to laugh at their jokes and lean in close when taking their orders, who tipped generously but expected something that bordered on personal attention in return.

Stephanie understood ego management. She'd built her entire survival strategy around it.

When she'd finally made her way to table seven in the VIP section—a corner booth draped in low lighting with bottle service already set up—she'd found what she expected: three men in expensive suits, expensive watches, the kind of haircuts that cost more than most people's rent. They were mid-conversation about some merger or acquisition, but then one of them had looked up as she approached, and Stephanie realized she definitely wasn't expecting this.』