Chapter 1

POV: Aria Chen

"Move those hips, sweetheart! That's what we're paying for!"

The voice cut through the pounding bass, and I forced my body to sway to the rhythm, ignoring the knot of disgust tightening in my stomach. The strobe lights made everything feel disjointed, flashes of leering faces, raised beer bottles, hands waving dollar bills like I was some kind of carnival prize.

I wasn't a stripper. Not technically. The Velvet Room called us "entertainment dancers." We kept our clothes on, mostly. Sequined tops, short skirts, heels that made my feet scream after the first hour. It was supposed to be classier than the places down on Fifth Street.

It wasn't. But it paid two hundred dollars a night, and that was exactly enough to cover Lila's medications for the week. So I smiled like my life depended on it, because in a way, it did and I danced.

"Come on, baby! Get closer!"

Mr. Hendricks. Regular customer, always sat front and center, always too drunk by ten o'clock. His meaty hand reached up and grabbed my ankle, his grip slippery with sweat and beer. I jerked my leg back. "Don't touch."

The music was too loud. He either didn't hear me or didn't care. His grin widened, showing tobacco-stained teeth, and he leaned forward in his chair.

"What's the matter? I'm a paying customer!"

"And I'm not on the menu." I took a step back on the small stage, but there was nowhere to go. The platform was barely six feet across. "Keep your hands to yourself."

"Stuck-up bitch," he muttered, loud enough for the guys at his table to hear. They laughed, egging him on. "You think you're too good for this place?"

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my expression neutral. Rico, the manager, was somewhere in the back. The bouncer was dealing with a fight near the bar. I was on my own. Hendricks lunged.

His hand caught the hem of my skirt, yanking hard. I stumbled, barely catching myself on the pole at the center of the stage. His other hand reached up, grabbing at my thigh, fingers digging in.

"Stop!" I twisted away, but he held on, pulling himself half onto the stage. The crowd around us was filming now. I could see the phones held up, recording, but nobody moved to help. This was entertainment to them. Just another drunk night at the Velvet Room.

My hand found an empty beer bottle someone had left on the edge of the stage. I grabbed it, smashed it against the platform. Glass scattered, and I held the jagged neck out in front of me.

"Back off. Now."

Hendricks froze, his eyes widening. For a second, I thought he'd listen. Then his face twisted with rage.

"You threatening me?"

He charged.

I didn't think. Just swung. The bottle connected with the side of his head, not hard, not the sharp end, just enough to make him stop. But he was drunk and off-balance. His feet tangled, and he went down hard, crashing into the table behind him. Beer bottles shattered. His forehead hit the edge of the table with a sickening crack. Blood bloomed across his temple. The music cut out.

In the sudden silence, I could hear my own ragged breathing, the nervous whispers of the crowd, and Hendricks groaning on the floor.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Rico pushed through the crowd, his face red with fury. He looked at Hendricks bleeding on the floor, then at me standing on the stage with the broken bottle still in my hand.

"He touched me first!" The words tumbled out. "Rico, he grabbed me. He wouldn't let go. You have cameras, check the cameras!"

Rico's expression didn't change. "Cameras been broken for weeks. You know that."

My stomach dropped. I did know that. Everyone who worked here knew that. It was one of the reasons this place was so cheap, no security, no protection, no proof when things went wrong.

"But everyone saw.." I gestured at the crowd of phones.

"All I see," Rico said slowly, "is you assaulting my best customer."

"Your best customer assaulted me!"

"Mr. Hendricks is a respected member of this community." Rico bent down, helping Hendricks to his feet. Blood dripped down the older man's face, and he swayed slightly. "He comes here three times a week, spends good money. You? You're just another girl who thinks she's too good for honest work."

"Honest work?" The laugh that escaped me was half-hysterical. "He tried to.."

"You're fired."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "What?"

Rico reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, and threw it at my feet. It landed in a puddle of spilled beer.

"Get out. Now. Before I call the cops and have you arrested for assault."

I stared at the money on the floor. Twenty dollars. That was it. Four hours of having strange men leer at me, shout at me, treat me like I was less than human. Twenty dollars.

"Pick it up," someone in the crowd jeered.

"Crazy bitch," Hendricks slurred, pressing a bar napkin to his bleeding head. "I want her arrested! She attacked me!"

Rico's eyes were cold. "Get out before I call the cops. And don't come back."

My hands shook as I climbed down from the stage. The crowd parted like I was contagious. I bent down, my face burning with humiliation, and picked up the wet twenty-dollar bill.

Someone laughed. The sound followed me as I grabbed my bag from behind the bar and headed for the door.

That's when I felt it, the weight of someone's stare. I turned. In the back corner booth, half-hidden in shadow, sat a man I hadn't noticed before. Expensive suit, dark and perfectly tailored. A glass of whiskey sat untouched on the table in front of him. But it was his eyes that stopped me cold, gray, calculating, fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin crawl. Our eyes met.

He didn't look away. Didn't blink. Just watched me with the patient focus of a predator studying prey. A chill ran down my spine, but I forced myself to turn away. I was being paranoid. He was just another customer in a bar full of them. I pushed through the door into the alley behind the club.

The night air was cold against my sweat-soaked skin. I leaned against the brick wall, my legs shaking so badly I could barely stand. With trembling fingers, I pulled out my phone and opened my wallet app.

Twenty dollars in cash. Forty-three dollars and twelve cents in my account.Sixty-three dollars total. Lila's prescription refill was ninety dollars. Due tomorrow. My phone rang.

The screen lit up with a name that made my heart stop: Saint Michael's Hospital. No. No, no, no. I answered with trembling hands. "Hello?”