One glance

They moved quickly through a side hall, toward a door framed by dark velvet curtains. The sign read PRIVATE in gold. Lisa opened it with a key she pulled from her garter, then turned to Aurora.

"Listen up," she said, her voice low. "This is the kind of room you don't look too long into. Got it? The men who come here are regulars. Loaded. Dangerous, maybe. Rumor is—Russian mafia."

Aurora arched a brow. "Are they a problem?"

"No," Lisa said. "Unless you become one. They tip well and keep their hands to themselves... usually. I make the drinks, you smile and pour. And if they say anything weird, you didn't hear it."

Aurora gave a small nod. "Understood."

Lisa gave her a once-over. "You'll do. Come on."

Inside, the room was all shadows and gold trim. A table sat in the center, lit by a chandelier that cast soft light across black velvet furniture. Three men were already seated, dressed in dark suits that screamed wealth and control. Their conversation paused as the women entered.

Aurora focused on the tray. Bottles. Ice. Glasses.

But then—she looked up.

And saw him.

The man in the middle turned slowly, a half-smile curling his lips as if he'd sensed her long before she walked in.

Kyram Vladimir.

Younger than the rumors. No more than thirty. His features were sharp and clean, with pale blue eyes that burned too cold to be innocent. He had the kind of beauty that hurt to look at—high cheekbones, neatly trimmed beard, and a mouth that curved like it belonged on a darker story.

Aurora felt the punch of his gaze before he even spoke.

"And who is this?" His voice was deep, accented, smooth like crushed velvet.

Lisa stepped in. "New trainee. Here to help."

Kyram didn't take his eyes off Aurora. "She's not a dancer?"

"Not yet," Lisa replied quickly, sensing the danger in his tone.

He stood slowly, his presence towering even without raising his voice. He reached for a glass, and Aurora instinctively stepped forward to fill it. His hand brushed hers—not an accident.

Her breath caught.

"You have a lovely name?" he asked.

"Aurora," she said, steady.

He let the word settle in his mouth like he was tasting it. "Fitting."

The other two men chuckled quietly, amused. Aurora kept her expression blank. Unshaken.

Kyram leaned just a little closer. "You don't smile much, Aurora."

"I'm working," she replied.

He chuckled. "Even better."

She turned to walk away, leaving the tray with Lisa.

All night, his eyes followed her.

But Aurora never gave him more than a glance.

She wasn't here to be anyone's toy.

Aurora didn't tremble when she stepped out of that room—but her hands remembered. They buzzed with something unspoken, something she didn't want to name. Not fear, not quite. Not desire, either. It was more like being caught in the gaze of a predator too refined to bare his teeth.

She returned to the bar, eyes forward, jaw set. Lisa followed behind her with an unreadable expression.

"Don't worry," Lisa muttered as she slid behind the counter again. "You handled it fine. He flirts with anything that breathes."

Aurora arched a brow. "So he does that often?"

"Only when he's in a good mood," Lisa said, then paused. "You got lucky."

Jeremiah gave Aurora a low whistle. "You met the snow king himself and lived to tell it. Impressive."

"Is that what people call him?"

"Some do," Lisa said, lowering her voice. "Kyram Vladimir. He runs half the damn import scene west of the Rockies. Too clean to catch, too rich to touch. Men like him buy silence with gold and loyalty with blood."

Aurora didn't flinch. "He's just a client."

Lisa gave her a look—half respect, half warning. "You keep telling yourself that."

But Aurora wasn't rattled. She had lived among worse monsters, though maybe not in Armani.

The rest of the night blurred into a cocktail of color and sound. Dancers twirled under violet lights, gowns shimmered with every spin, and money flowed like champagne. Aurora served, watched, memorized. She stayed on her feet, never missing a beat, careful to blend into the rhythm of the club.

But every now and then, she felt his eyes.

Even across the room, Kyram's gaze found her through the crowd, watching without shame. Unblinking. As if he were studying a song before learning the lyrics.

She gave him nothing back.

By two in the morning, the house had emptied, the lights had dimmed, and the club exhaled like a tired beast finally allowed to sleep. Aurora stood near the bar, sore-footed and dazed, clutching her now-empty tray.

Vanessa approached from the hallway, her heels muffled on the carpet.

"Well?"

Aurora straightened, blinking herself out of her trance. "It was... beautiful. And intense."

Vanessa gave a knowing smile. "You kept your head. That matters more than you know."

"Lisa told me who they were," Aurora said quietly. "The men in the room."

"And?"

"I served them drinks. That's all."

Vanessa studied her for a moment, eyes unreadable. "Good. Remember that."

She handed Aurora a rolled envelope—her first night's cut. Small, but real. Earned.

"Go on," Vanessa said. "Rest. You did well."

Aurora walked slowly down the hallway, the buzz of music still ringing in her ears. She passed the dancers' dressing room—now quiet, robes hung on chairs, heels kicked off in corners like fallen crowns. The air still smelled of perfume and powdered glitter.

Her little studio apartment sat tucked behind a velvet curtain and a hallway of low lights. She unlocked the door, stepped inside, and finally let her breath out.

It wasn't much. The bed creaked. The walls were thin. The floor chilled her bare feet. But it was hers.

She peeled off her black dress and stood in the silence for a moment, letting the weight of the night settle over her. Not fear. Not excitement. Something else.

Kyram's voice echoed in her mind. You don't smile much, Aurora.

She turned off the light and slipped under the covers, the city still glowing faintly through the window.

No, she didn't smile much.

But she would.

One day, she'd smile on that stage with the spotlight burning gold on her skin.

And the whole damn city would remember her name.