Chapter 2: Tide and Lust

Sin City was exactly what its name promised, the most popular strip club in Manhattan. The room stayed dim, drowning with the neon glow of colored nights, red on the strip pool showcasing silhouettes of naked women.

Zara arrived for her night shift as the bar girl.

“Here comes the queen,” the manager teased. Keisha was big, loud, and carried the kind of worldly look that said she’d seen everything twice.

“I’m sorry. I had a small crisis,” Zara said carefully.

She was still in a sweater and jeans, her olive skin glowing softly beneath thick black curls.

“Bitch, you shut the fuck up.”

Zara swallowed. “Ma’am—”

Keisha cut her off.

“I said you need to be ready to shut the fuck up.”

“What time is it?” Keisha snapped.

Zara checked her phone. “Eight past.”

“And what time were you supposed to be here?”

“Who you yelling at, Keisha?”

The top stripper walked in.

Her name was Body.

She charged the highest price in the club and dressed like she knew it. Tonight she wore nothing but a thin thong strap. A bright blue wig framed her light-skinned face, and her lashes were outrageously long. Her body curved dramatically with the obviousness of BBL surgery.

“Honey,” Body drawled, eyeing Zara, “this bitch starting to grow wings or what?”

Zara stared at the floor.

“I asked you,” Keisha barked again. “What time were you supposed to be here?”

“Six,” Zara whispered, her throat tight.

Keisha glanced at Body.

Then at Zara.

It was a silent exchange that said everything.

Body stepped forward and slapped her.

Hard.

No warning. No restraint.

The sound cracked through the room.

Zara held her chin, refusing to look up.

“You put those clothes on and smile,” Keisha said, tossing her a dress. “We don’t want our customers thinking we got sad whores in here. Am I right?”

Zara’s blood burned.

Her hands trembled with the urge to slap back. To fight.

But she forced herself to stay still.

She knew the consequences.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

Their laughter followed her down the hallway.

She was used to it.

The insults.

The humiliation.

The hierarchy.

She endured it for one reason.

Antonio.

Her savior.

The man who once pulled her out of hell.

Debt and loyalty kept her here even when her pride screamed at her to run.

About an hour later—

The club doors opened again.

And the energy changed.

Nat Wolfe walked in.

Confidence dripped off him like the expensive cologne clinging to his suit. His dark skin glowed beneath the neon lights, a Cuban cigar resting between his fingers.

He didn’t bother looking around.

He didn’t have to.

The club knew him.

Men with money like his didn’t wait in lines.

Nat walked straight to the red sofa beside the strip pole and dropped onto it like a king claiming his throne. Through the hazy clouds of cigar smoke, he watched the dancers with bored eyes.

At the bar, Zara served drinks.

Between customers, she pulled out her sketchpad and continued drawing a ball gown design.

Fashion design was her dream.

The only thing that made her truly happy.

Her escape beyond the club.

Despite being trapped under Antonio’s manipulation, she still allowed herself one dangerous luxury—

Hope.

Right now she was coloring the dress with a yellow pencil when a deep voice interrupted.

“Turquoise gin.”

She looked up.

Nat Wolfe stood in front of her.

Without a word, she grabbed the shimmering blue bottle and poured a shot.

He drank it without breaking eye contact.

“Another.”

She poured again.

Five shots later, he still looked perfectly steady.

“What are you doing here looking so bored?” he asked.

“Doing my job,” Zara replied flatly.

“You’re supposed to be doing something more… creative.”

She paused and studied him.

Bearded.

Dark skin.

An expensive suit.

Arrogance leaking from every pore.

She rested her elbows on the counter, her chin on her hands.

“Like…?”

“Like gliding down somewhere,” he said with a slow smile, teasing and dangerous.

She shook her head.

Just another rich man who thought money made him untouchable.

“How much?” he asked bluntly.

“Sorry?”

He lit his cigar again and blew out a thick stream of smoke.

“What do you cost?”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” she said coolly. “I don’t do escorts. I dance.”

“Oh.”

He looked genuinely surprised.

“But,” he added with a small shrug, “I sure could earn you.”

“Maybe. But tonight, I’m not in the mood.”

He pulled out a thick wand of dollar bills and slid some across the counter.

“For the drink. Keep the rest for yourself.”

Zara pushed the money back.

“I don’t take extras.”

One of his eyebrows lifted.

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

Now he studied her differently.

“Honest and still working in this place?” he murmured. “Interesting. I’m Nat.”

“Zara.”

They shook hands.

His fingers lingered for just a second too long.

And in his eyes, beneath the arrogance and steel, Zara caught something unexpected.

Loneliness.

“I’ve got to switch to the pole,” she said, stepping away.

Nat caught her wrist lightly.

“Did you say the pole?”

“You heard right.”

“Show me.”

---

Under the red lights, Zara transformed.

She wasn’t the quiet bar girl anymore.

She moved like music lived inside her bones.

Slow and teasing.

Like a living and breathing aphrodisiac.

He moved closer to the stage, watching like a predator who had just spotted something rare.

Money rained at her feet.

But his eyes never left her body.

When she slid down the pole and their gazes locked, the air between them tightened.

“I want to see you privately,” he said, gesturing toward the lounge. “Over there.”

Zara folded her arms.

“Okay. But make it brief,” she said. “And I ain’t doing nothing with you.”

He chuckled, slow and sly.

Nat walked ahead and sank into the sofa in the private lounge room. He lit another cigar and dropped the burnt match into the ashtray, leaning back like a man who owned the air in the room.

Zara lingered by the doorway.

She didn’t sit.

He noticed.

“Come on,” he said, amused. “I don’t bite.”

Reluctantly, she walked over and sat on the edge of the couch, leaving enough space between them to make a point.

Nat watched her for a moment before speaking.

“Tell me more about you.”

Zara met his gaze.

There was something about the way he looked at her. His eyes lingered—not just with desire, but curiosity. His voice had a softness beneath its depth, and when he leaned forward slightly to look at her, it felt deliberate. Intentional.

For a strange moment, Zara felt…

Seen.

Cherished.

Important.

And that alone made her uneasy.

She pushed the feeling away quickly, brushing off the sudden wave of emotion before it could settle.

He was probably just another punk.

One of the many men who walked into Sin City every night, throwing money around and teasing the girls like toys.

That’s what she told herself.

But deep down…

She knew the feeling in the room was different.

The vibe between them was unmistakable.