CHAPTER THREE

I stepped onto the stage, heels clicking against polished floor. The bass hit first. Sharp. Like it was drilling into my chest. Music thumped in my chest, in my bones, my whole body syncing with it like it was an extension of me. Hips swaying, confident. Unapologetic. I was every bit of the Amara the club expected. In control.

Just as I was about climbing the pole, I saw him.

Dorian Wellington.

My eyes must be playing tricks on me. 

Then I looked again. It's really him. 

Standing near a high table. Calm. Composed. Wrong here. Out of place. And yet… there he was.

No, it can't be. Did he come to see me? To watch me? But I didn't tell him where I worked. I only said “A club”. No, It can't be. It's probably a coincidence. 

I can't be that important for him to come watch me.

My skin prickled from head to toe, tingling in ways I couldn't place. 

And our eyes meet. He looked surprised yet composed.

I didn't falter. My body didn't hesitate. My hips swayed. My hands slid around the pole. I twirled, spun, rolled my shoulders back, all of it in perfect rhythm. Every motion said confidence, mastery. But every step, every twirl, every sway carried an awareness of him.

His eyes didn't wander. Not once. Not to listen to what his friends were saying. Not to the crowd. All of it, all of me, held his stare.

He wasn't looking like the others. Not like the men who always stared at me in half-lit rooms, eyes hungry, entitled. Not like the ones who judged me because of what I wore or what I did. His gaze didn't measure. It didn't consume.

He watched. Observed. Tried to see me.

And that threw me off more than any mockery ever could.

I locked eyes with him mid-spin, holding his gaze for several beats. My heart jumped. It was unnerving. Confusing. I wanted to look away. I wanted to pretend I didn't notice.

But I didn't.

I let my waist roll, hips sway. My movements never faltered. My confidence never wavered. Yet every step carried hidden chaos inside me. The tension between us , the something unnameable I hadn't felt before.

I caught glimpses of the crowd out of the corner of my eye. They were cheering, clapping, lost in the 

spectacle. But I wasn't performing for them. I was performing for him.

And that made everything sharper. Every twist, every dip, every roll of my hips felt magnified. My hands gripped the pole tighter, my legs pushed stronger, my shoulders rolled higher. The music pulsed, but it wasn't music anymore. It was heat. Tension. It was the way he watched me, just as intense as my heart beat.

I caught myself thinking: Who was this man? What does he see that no one else does?

I shook my head to focus. I spun to the left, then to the right, letting my hair fall across my face, forcing myself to look composed, professional. But his eyes never wavered. Never blinked. Never looked away.

And I realized something terrifying: I wasn't worried about him judging me. I wasn't scared of what he thought. I wasn't concerned about his opinion.

I was shaken because he wasn't looking like everyone else ever had. He wasn't looking at me as a stripper, a performance, a product. He was looking at me… at me. At the person I tried so hard to hide.

And it made me feel naked, even though I was fully clothed.

Minutes or maybe seconds passed. I lost track. The music hits its final notes, the crowd erupted in cheers but I was in a different kind of chaos. My pulse raced. My skin was on fire.

I stepped down from the stage, heels clicking against the floor. Every step felt heavy, but I didn't look at him. Not yet. I didn't want to see if he was still watching.

I reached the small door that led to the backstage, my hand hovering over the handle.

He didn't follow. He didn't speak.

I turned the knob, slipping inside.

The music thumped through the walls, distant but loud. My chest still raced. I leaned against the wall, trying to gather myself, trying to remember that this was work. That he was just… him. Just curious. Just watching.

And yet, something in me knew that tonight changed something. Something I couldn't name.

“Amara,” I turned around startled.

It was Davina smiling deviously.

“What was that on stage?” She asked.

“What was what?” 

“The dance on stage. it was wild and… Different maybe. I can't quite place it.” She said, grinning so hard.

I turned around to take off my heels. “Well I just decided to put in more effort, who knows, more tips maybe.”

“Hmmm.” She hummed, suspiciously. “If you say so.”

“Yeah, I said so.”

I ran my hand through my hair, trying to shake off the tension that lingered in my bones.

She came to sit beside me. “ So how was the date?”

“It was okay. Easier than I thought.” I answered.

“I told you, nothing you can't do.” She shrugged.

I laughed softly.

I stood up, smoothing my skirt, adjusting my hair, pretending I was in control, I stepped towards the hallway leading out, the quiet of the backstage pressing around me.

And then, just before I disappeared into the dim corridors behind the club, I felt it again. That pull. That weight. That unrelenting gaze.

I didn't look back.

But I could feel him there, watching. Waiting. 

And the thought sent shiver down

my spine I didn't want to name.

Because I had no idea why he was thinking.

Or what he wanted.