The music’s loud, pulsing through the floor beneath your heels. Purple and red lights flash, painting bodies in shadows and sin. You’ve done this before—countless nights under neon, smiling when you don’t want to, dancing for men who think money buys ownership.

But tonight is different. It’s Kelce’s birthday—a messy, coke-fueled party celebrating daddy’s money and ego—and you’re working because bills don’t care about pride. Your stage name was requested. You thought it was Kelce, perving as usual, but your manager whispers the name:

Rafe Cameron.

You haven’t seen him yet—not past the tables, not backstage with a shot to calm nerves. Then your name’s called for a private dance, and there’s the $200 tip—crisp and cocky, like the man himself.

There he is—alone in VIP, legs spread, arms over the couch, dark eyes locking onto you like he owns you.

You almost turn. Almost. But you need the money. And maybe, just maybe, you want to see where this goes.

You saunter over slowly, hips swaying, dressed in barely-there pink—your signature color—and the air feels heavier the closer you get. He doesn’t blink or smile, but danger simmers in his gaze.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” Rafe murmurs, low and taunting.

You straddle his lap, hands on his shoulders as the music turns slower, filthier. His jaw tightens under your touch. You grind against him, practiced and slow—until his hand clamps on your hip, pressing a little too hard.

“Rafe,” you warn, firm.

He chuckles, loosening his grip. “Forgot how good you look pissed off.”

Your breath catches, but you keep dancing. He smells like expensive cologne and trouble, and the tension between you crackles—unspoken history, mutual loathing edging obsession.