Sara had danced that night like she always did—fluid, composed, untouchable. The lights from the stage kissed her skin in pulsing rhythm, her tattoos gleaming faintly under the shifting hues. She moved with hypnotic precision, letting the beat carry her body. Every gaze in the room clung to her, but she kept her focus inward, breathing through the music, a mask stitched from poise and practiced seduction.

Afterward, she retreated backstage, the tension uncoiling from her limbs as she wiped glitter from her collarbone and traced a damp towel along the back of her neck. Her mind was already shifting gears, thinking about the upcoming psychology paper, her mother’s recent call, the bills on her kitchen table. But as she slipped on her silk robe and stepped into the hallway, Daria was already waiting.

The club owner leaned against the velvet wall like she owned gravity. She always did this, appeared at the right moment with her red lips and veiled intentions. Sara knew what was coming before Daria even spoke.

“She asked for you,” Daria said, low and casual, but her eyes glittered with the weight behind the words.

Sara’s heart stuttered. The air suddenly felt heavier. It wasn’t the first time a client had requested her for more than a dance. Daria had hinted before, always with subtle phrasing, always giving Sara room to decline. And she had. Every single time. She had boundaries, and she’d drawn her lines early. She danced, yes. She teased and performed. But she didn’t sell her body, not like that.

Sara shook her head automatically, the reflex burning in her chest. “Not interested.”

“She’s different,” Daria continued, straightening. “A woman this time. Not just rich—loaded. Discreet. And she’s not asking for much.” A pause. “But she’s offering a lot.”

Daria handed her a card. It was black and sleek, embossed with gold lettering. No name. Just a room number. VIP Suite 7. The kind of suite that only the untouchables accessed. Sara stared at it, her pulse quickening.

Sara stood outside Suite 7, fingers curled around the sleek black card, her breath catching in her throat. Her reflection in the hallway mirror caught her eye. It was flawed, imperfect in a way she never allowed herself to be on stage. Her eyeliner smudged just slightly beneath one eye, a ghost of sweat tracing down her temple. The red lipstick she wore had faded to something more human than sultry.

She wore a black button-up shirt, oversized and casual. It slid over her frame like a curtain, long enough to pass as a dress, but the upper buttons were left open—an invitation. She hadn’t bothered with lingerie or heels. No performance this time. No mask. Just her.

Sara raised her hand and knocked. The kind of silence that hummed, like someone watching from behind a one-way mirror. She waited five seconds. Ten. No answer. She tried the handle. Unlocked.

Sara pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room swallowed her whole. Velvet drapes pooled on the floor, wine-colored and impossibly thick, absorbing all the light. The walls were lined with gold trim, and the air was dense with the scent of incense—spiced, smoky, and vaguely sweet. Music played somewhere, slow and ambient.

Her gaze swept across the room. A massive bed took center stage with black satin sheets pulled tight, surrounded by mirrors and padded restraints. A low table nearby bore an array of objects—plush cuffs, silk blindfolds, gleaming toys, oils, ropes. Some looked sensual. Others brutal.

Then she saw her, seated in a high-backed velvet chair, almost entirely enveloped by shadow, legs crossed, one arm draped along the armrest. A glass of something dark and expensive rested in her other hand.

Sara froze mid-step, her body instinctively straightening. Something inside her spine tingled, her throat tightened. The dancer in her wanted to perform, to fall into her practiced grace and choreographed seduction. But something about this made the act feel false. She wasn’t being asked to perform. She was being asked to submit.

“I didn’t expect to be called there by a woman.” Sara said with low voice. She didn’t ask what was expected of her. She didn’t need to. The room, the atmosphere, the quiet intensity of the woman's gaze, everything made it clear.