Private Offers & Broken Plans

Nova

The glow from my laptop screen faded slowly as I shut it. My room was dim again, quiet, the sound of the city outside just a low hum beneath my window. I sat there for a second, breathing. Letting my body cool down. My skin was still warm, still buzzing from the adrenaline of performing. Red lace hugged my curves, my legs tucked under me on the chair.

My phone buzzed beside me.

I picked it up, not expecting anything serious. But it was him.

SilentObserver: I do want a private show. Just not tonight. I’m busy.

I stared at the message, my lips curving without permission. Busy. That word sounded too clean coming from someone who had just paid me five grand to watch me tease a camera.

I let my thumbs hover over the keyboard for a moment before typing back.

Me: Busy? That’s a shame. I was planning on making you beg.

No reply.

Figures. The mysterious type never play into the moment when you want them to. I tossed the phone onto the bed and stood, stretching my arms above my head. My shoulder cracked. I winced. Too many hours in that chair.

I unhooked the bra slowly, letting it fall to the floor. Peeled the lace panties off one leg at a time. The wig went next. My natural curls were flat and stuck to my forehead. I scratched at my scalp, walking into my room to grab an oversized T-shirt and nothing else. Soft cotton against bare skin. Instant comfort.

As I padded into the bathroom, I caught my reflection in the mirror. Smudged lipstick. Mask marks on my cheeks. But my eyes were clear. And I was smiling.

Five thousand dollars.

I had stared at the tip when it came in, certain it was a glitch. Nobody tipped that much unless they were drunk or stupid or bored out of their mind. But it had come through. Clean. No strings attached. One click. Just like that, a weight lifted off my chest.

That was nearly two weeks of work. Maybe more. Tuition was already eighty percent covered with my scholarship. But the remaining chunk had been hanging over my head like a brick. Not anymore. I could pay it off tomorrow. Buy the new set of writing books I’d been eyeing since last semester. Even replace my headset.

I leaned against the doorframe, still staring at myself.

Who are you, SilentObserver?

He hadn’t said much. Just that one line. But there was something about him. The way he typed. The way he watched. It felt different. Controlled. Confident. I wasn’t stupid. I knew most of these men were playing games. But this one felt... real. Sharp. And I had offered him a private show because he tipped big. But now I was thinking about it for other reasons.

I shook the thought away and headed for the kitchen. My stomach growled as soon as I stepped on the cold tile. I opened the fridge and stared at the contents. Not much. Eggs. A couple tomatoes. Half a bottle of juice. I grabbed the eggs and started cracking them into a bowl.

My phone buzzed again.

This time it was Dad.

Dad: Change of plans, pumpkin. Flying out with Genevieve this weekend. We’ll do dinner next week instead. I'm so sorry, I'll see you soon.

I stared at the message. Blank. Of course.

I let out a breath and tossed the phone onto the counter. It clattered but didn’t fall. I turned back to the eggs and started whisking like I was angry at them. Genevieve wanted him to come with her, so he went. Simple. No big deal. Just his only daughter being pushed aside again. Nothing new.

The heat from the stove warmed the kitchen, and for a moment it felt like someone else's home. I moved around on autopilot, opening drawers, grabbing a plate, washing a fork that had been sitting in the sink since morning. The eggs hissed quietly in the pan as the tomatoes softened. I added a splash of hot sauce and stirred lazily, letting the steam rise into my face, eyes stinging slightly. The rhythm of cooking grounded me more than I expected. Added a little salt. A little pepper. Folded the eggs, plated the food. My stomach didn’t feel as hungry anymore, but I ate anyway.

When I plated the food, I took an extra minute to arrange it neatly, wiping the edge of the plate with a napkin like I was in some fancy apartment downtown and not my cramped, half-decorated kitchen. I stood there after everything was ready, leaning on the counter with the fork in my hand, trying not to think about how fast the mood had shifted tonight. From power to disappointment. From velvet to eggs.

I carried the plate to the living room, flopped down on the couch. Turned on the TV. Some rerun of a trashy dating show I had already seen three times. I let it play. The noise filled the room while I focused on chewing. Swallowing. Breathing.

My phone buzzed again on the kitchen counter. A series of messages. Probably the app. Maybe fans. Maybe tips.

I didn’t check.

Tonight, I just wanted to eat in peace. No stage. No games. No dad. No Genevieve. Just me, my food, and the glow of bad reality TV.

The lights of the city blinked faintly through the window behind me. Tomorrow would come fast. But for now, I let myself sit in the quiet. Still Nova. Still breathing. Still mine.