Chapter 3: One Night Only

The bathroom mirror in Jenna’s apartment was streaked with old makeup and bad decisions, but tonight it reflected two girls who barely recognized themselves.

Isabel leaned closer, adjusting the strap of her dark emerald green dress for the third time. Her curls were ironed flat and shiny, her eyeliner just a bit too sharp, her lips a deep red that made her look like someone she wasn’t.

Someone dangerous.

“I look like I’m trying too hard,” she muttered.

“You look like money,” Jenna grinned, stuffing her lipstick into her tiny rhinestone clutch. “That’s the point.”

“I feel like I can’t breathe.”

“That’s because we used double push-up tape. You’ll survive.”

Isabel exhaled shakily and stepped back from the mirror. Her heels clicked awkwardly on the tile, her legs unfamiliar beneath the short dress Jenna had begged her to wear.

They looked like girls in a music video. They felt like girls lying to themselves.

“You sure about this?” Isabel asked, voice low.

Jenna gave her a look. “Babe. We already spent two hours contouring your collarbones. There’s no backing out now.”

“I don’t know how to dance on a pole.”

“You don’t have to know. You just need to look like you could.”

Isabel tried to laugh. It came out tight.

Jenna softened. “Hey. Listen. We go in, we give a name, we stick together. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Promise.”

Isabel nodded slowly. “Okay.”

A knock sounded at the front door—Charlie, Jenna’s cousin, who worked valet at the club and had the hookup for getting past security.

“Time to go, ladies,” he called through the door.

Isabel grabbed her clutch with shaking fingers.

“Fake names?”

Jenna handed her a laminated card. “You’re Belle. I’m Cassie. Don’t forget.”

Isabel stared at the name, trying to fit it on like an ill-fitting coat. Belle. Like a girl in a fairy tale.

They slid into Charlie’s car, hearts pounding beneath satin and sequins. The ride to the club was a blur of neon signs, late-night traffic, and Isabel’s stomach knotting tighter with every turn.

When they pulled up to the side entrance, Charlie turned around, serious now.

“Stick to the story. No real names, no real addresses. Smile, act like you’ve been here before. If anything feels weird, text me.”

Jenna nodded. “We’ve got this.”

Isabel swallowed hard. “Yeah. We do.”

The bouncer outside barely looked at them before letting them in, thanks to Charlie’s quiet word and a generous handshake. Inside, the air changed.

Warm. Velvet-slick. The smell of perfume and whiskey wrapped around Isabel like silk.

The lighting was low, gold and red, with shadows dancing across polished floors. Plush chairs curved like whispers around private booths. Women in lingerie and stiletto heels moved like water across the room, confident and graceful.

Isabel couldn’t move.

Jenna grabbed her hand. “Don’t freeze now.”

They headed toward the back, where a woman with a headset and a clipboard checked their names.

“Belle and Cassie,” Jenna said smoothly, her voice an octave lower. “We’re filling in for Tia.”

The woman didn’t blink. “You’re late. Dressing room’s that way. You’re up after Misty.”

They made it.

Isabel felt her knees wobble. She was here. She’d stepped into the lie—and no one had stopped her.

“Come on,” Jenna whispered. “Let’s get changed.”

The dressing room smelled like coconut oil, body spray, and heat. Glitter was everywhere—on counters, carpets, skin. A girl with platinum-blonde hair was arguing with someone over missing heels. Another dabbed concealer onto a bruise on her thigh, unfazed by the chaos.

Jenna handed Isabel a sheer robe and whispered, “Put it on. Trust me, you’re going to look like a goddess.”

Isabel obeyed, fumbling out of her jacket and slipping into the robe. It draped over her curves like liquid, barely opaque, the hem brushing her thighs.

She caught her reflection in the mirror—and froze.

For a moment, she didn’t see herself. Not the girl scraping dishes after midnight, not the one holding back tears in the freezer room so her manager wouldn’t see. She saw Belle.

Belle had fire in her eyes. She didn’t beg for time off or chase scholarships. She didn’t need saving.

“You look… unreal,” Jenna said softly, almost surprised.

The clipboard woman stuck her head into the room. “Cassie, you’re up next. Belle, you’re after her. You’ve got two minutes.”

Jenna squeezed her hand. “Breathe. Just sway. Feel the music. You don’t have to strip, okay? Just dance.”

Isabel nodded like her head was the only part of her that still worked.

She waited backstage, peeking out through the curtain. The stage glowed with crimson light, a polished pole gleaming in the center. Down below, tables buzzed with low conversation and murmured laughter, mostly men in designer suits or loosened ties, smoke curling from cigars and glasses of whiskey in hand.

And above them all, a private balcony with shadowed booths and frosted glass.

Isabel couldn’t see who was up there—but she felt the weight of someone watching.

“Cassie” stepped onto the stage with a toss of her curls and the kind of smile Isabel couldn’t fake. Music swelled, low and bass-heavy, and Jenna spun effortlessly around the pole before sinking into a smooth drop, all hips and heat.

The crowd responded. Applause, some cheers. Money folded discreetly, slid along the stage.

Isabel’s stomach flipped. Her throat was dry.

Then—

“Belle. You’re on,” someone whispered.

She stepped forward. The lights hit her like a baptism. Warm, blinding, dizzying.

The beat dropped.

She walked slowly to the center, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor, every nerve in her body screaming run. But her legs moved. Her hips followed. She grabbed the pole—not gracefully, but not like a rookie either—and spun, letting her body turn, twist, follow instinct instead of fear.

And when her robe slipped off one shoulder, revealing the glitter of her dress beneath, the crowd murmured.

It wasn’t shame that pulsed through her.

It was power.

Men leaned forward. Eyes locked onto her. Not just for how she looked, but how she moved. Her hands, her breath, the line of her neck as she tilted her chin and turned her back to them.

She wasn’t invisible anymore.

She was everything.

The lights changed—blue now, softening the edges. Her pulse calmed. Her movements grew bolder. She slid down the pole, legs folding under her, then rose again with a sway of hips that had never moved like that before.

The song ended. She stepped back into the shadows, chest heaving.

Jenna was waiting, grinning wide.

“You killed it,” she whispered.

Isabel wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or scream.

Instead, she smiled—because for the first time in a long while, something inside her felt awake.

—————

From the upper balcony, the club looked like a dream.

Low lights glinted off crystal glasses, smoke curled in lazy spirals, and laughter floated like silk over the hum of music and desire. It was a playground for men who ruled empires during the day and sought shadows at night.

Alessandro De’Luca sat with a glass of neat scotch in one hand, elbow draped over the velvet booth behind him. His tailored navy suit still looked untouched after a fourteen-hour day. Around him, two business partners chatted idly, their post-deal high still buzzing.

“…thirty million in contracts signed before lunch. That deserves celebration,” one of them said, gesturing toward the stage.

“Plenty to celebrate,” Alessandro said without interest.

Until he saw her.

She had just stepped out onto the stage—slender, uncertain at first, her body wrapped in light the way a secret wears silence. He couldn’t see her face clearly through the shadowed edge of her hair. But something in the way she moved—

Not polished. Not like the others. This one wasn’t rehearsed.

She was raw.

She reached for the pole, not like it was a prop, but like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

And then—

Her shoulder slipped free of a sheer robe.

His throat tightened.

She spun slowly, one hand gripping the metal, her body tilting into the motion with tentative grace. It wasn’t sex she radiated. It was something far more dangerous.

Hunger.

Desperation.

Electric vulnerability wrapped in curves and lipstick.

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. One of his partners chuckled beside him.

“Which one caught your eye this time?”

Alessandro didn’t answer.

The girl dropped low, arching up with a movement so natural, so filled with something real, it cut through the haze of liquor and low light like a blade. He watched her finish with a slow turn, her head dipping as if she could hear the beat inside her own skin.

No name. No introduction.

But she didn’t need one.

He took one last sip of his drink and set the glass down.

Then he turned to the waiter who had just passed behind him. “The girl on stage.”

The waiter blinked. “Sir?”

“The last one. Belle.” Alessandro’s voice was cool, commanding, and quiet. “Bring her to me.”