The pink glow of the dressing room mirror bathed Taryn Thompson in a halo of artificial light, softening the sharp edges of her reflection. It was a lie, of course, this whole place was built on illusion. But lies had their uses. Lies paid her rent. Lies let her pretend this wasn't all there was.
The thump of bass-heavy music vibrated through the walls, rattling her nerves even more. Taryn sat at her vanity table, lining her eyes with kohl and dark shimmer, giving herself the look of someone far more dangerous than she felt. The thick lashes went on last, curling toward the low ceiling like the wings of something half-angel, half-predator.
She checked the clock on her phone. Three minutes.
Just enough time to adjust the straps on her costume. black and silver, tight as a secret. She stretched out her legs. She rolled her neck, shoulders, wrists. Every movement deliberate and controlled.
She could already hear the crowd, the dull roar of laughter and drunken catcalls bubbling up beneath the music. She hated the noise. Hated the stench of sweat and desperation.
Strangely, though, she liked the stage. She could express herself there, through music, through dance. Sure, it wasn't broadway. It wasn't ballroom dancing. It wasn't considered a respectable profession for most. But she loved the stage. She loved the feeling of power when she connected with the crowd.
"Taryn!" a voice called from the hall outside. "You're on in two!"
"Got it!" she shouted back.
Kimmie passed behind her in the mirror, adjusting a garter strap and chewing gum like she was getting paid for it. "You okay? You look… intense."
"I always look intense," Taryn replied with a smirk.
"Yeah, but tonight it's, like, next-level ice queen. Did someone piss in your drink, or what?"
Taryn laughed. "Just a weird vibe. Nothing I can't handle."
Well, that wasn't exactly true.
All day, she'd felt like something was waiting. Lurking. A low-grade hum of wrongness under her skin. She'd had dreams the past two nights, vivid ones she couldn't shake. Blood. White fabric. Laughter that wasn't hers.
She shook it off. The stage didn't wait for feelings. Neither did rent.
She stood, gave herself one last once-over, and walked out of the dressing room like a soldier heading into battle, except her armor was made of rhinestones and confidence, and the war was fought with eye contact and rhythm.
The lights blinded her for the first three seconds, as always. A thousand-watt glare that turned the crowd into shadows. Then the music hit.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Something slow and dark. Her favorite kind. She stepped into it, hips rolling with hypnotic precision as the beat wrapped around her. By the time she reached the pole at center stage, she was someone else entirely.
Not the girl who once dreamed of being a choreographer. Not the teenager who fled a bad home and worse decisions. Not the woman who counted tips and split rent with dancers who didn't know her last name.
Up here, she was legend.
The pole was slick and cold beneath her palms. She gripped, swung, flipped, the movement seamless. A fireman spin. A knee hold. A scissor climb that earned a chorus of appreciative whoops.
She tuned it all out. Let the music speak through her muscles, the sweat bead along her collarbone, the breath exhaled from her chest in practiced rhythm.
Then, she felt it. That gaze. Something was different about this one.
Not one of the usual greedy stares. Not the dull-eyed drooling of drunken men or the bored curiosity of out-of-town couples. Not even the creepy stalker vibe she'd been picking up from one of the regulars lately.
This was different. Sharp. Focused.
Like someone was studying her.
She scanned the crowd mid-spin and found him instantly, like her body already knew where he was.
He sat alone in the VIP section in the back. Even in shadows, he radiated power. Immaculate suit. Jaw like a razor. Handsome, like a model.
He wasn't clapping. Wasn't cheering. Just watching. And not in the leering, entitled way most rich men did. He was watching her, as though he was trying to catch her eye. So she met his gaze.
His eyes held a question.
Who are you?
She landed with a controlled thud and took her final pose, arms outstretched, chest rising with exertion. The applause came like a wave, but she barely heard it. Her focus had narrowed to a single thread,, the magnetic hum in her veins that hadn't been there before.
How could a stranger affect her like this? Sure, he was attractive, but she'd had her share of attractive men. As she slipped behind the curtain, heart pounding, she told herself it was nothing.
She didn't believe it.
Backstage was the usual chaos. Glitter-covered girls chugging Red Bull, laced with who knew what. One of the newer hires sobbing over a breakup in the locker room. Someone shouting for baby wipes.
Taryn moved through it like a ghost, shoulders tight. Kimmie tossed her a towel.
"Damn, girl. You lit the place up."
"It was okay," Taryn replied, wiping sweat from her chest. She didn't want to say the truth. That it felt different. That it felt seen. But Kimmie already knew, she always knew.
"You get a vibe from that guy in the VIP? Tall. Armani. Smoldering CEO energy?" Kimmie asked her.
"So it's not just me," Taryn said, raising a brow.
"Except it is. Whole room shifted when he walked in." Kimmie lowered her voice. "Rumor is, he just dropped a ridiculous amount for private time with you. Like, the kind of money that comes with strings."
Taryn raised an eyebrow. "What kind of strings?"
"The golden handcuff kind."
Taryn smirked. "He doesn't strike me as the sugar daddy type."
"Girl, I don't care if he's Satan in Armani. You should take his money and run."
Taryn didn't answer. She leaned against the counter, trying to slow her breathing. She'd dealt with rich men before. Some generous. Some dangerous. Some deluded. But this one…
This one had something.
And that something unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.
She caught her reflection again, glittering, flushed, alive. And still, behind the glam, a flicker of unease. She'd seen the regular that gave her the creeps, trying to blend in with the crowd. Which he would have been able to do, if he didn't make every instinct in her scream to run, fast and far, away from him.
That feeling from earlier hadn't gone away. If anything, it had sharpened.
Someone was watching her.
And it wasn't just Mr. Armani in the VIP.