Rebecca stepped out of the black cab that had pulled up in front of the building, its engine purring before going still. Her eyes rose to the structure ahead, a three-story venue glowing with light, cutting sharply through the heavy darkness of the night.
She walked forward with a graceful, deliberate sway, each step accentuated by the rhythmic click of her stilettos on polished pavement. Her long black coat clung to her figure, hiding the scanty outfit beneath. But she wore it all like armor: seductive, confident, and practiced.
Tonight's job would fetch her five thousand dollars. A windfall. Enough to pay the elderly home and settle her mother's overdue bills. Rebecca didn't have anyone else. No siblings. No backup. Just her mother, slipping further away into dementia each day, and her doing whatever it took to keep her cared for.
By day, she served pancakes and burnt coffee at a midtown diner. At night, she danced in masks and shadows. She even babysat when couples needed a night away. No one could ever find out her secrets. Not the parents she babysat for. Not the waitressing manager who barked at her to "smile more." The mask was her protection; her split life was her survival.
She adjusted her coat and stepped toward the sleek black door of the private club, heart racing with adrenaline and unease. Naomi had passed her this job at the last minute, double-booked and panicked, she'd called Rebecca.
"You'll be perfect," Naomi had said. "Same height, same build. Just use your stage name and you'll be fine."
Naomi had been her gateway into the world of dancing, the first to see past Rebecca's timidity and shape her into someone desirable, someone bold. Naomi had clients, regulars. Rebecca was still working her way up.
She had felt the pulse of excitement when Naomi called. A shot like this didn't come often.
Inside the club, she approached the front desk. A man in a suit looked her over with professional disinterest.
"Name?" he asked without glancing up.
"Lily," she said softly.
The name tasted familiar. Safe. It was what her mother still called her on her good days, one of the only memories the illness hadn't stolen. Lily. Innocence. Flowers. Purity. Every time her mother looked at her and whispered, "Lily, you came," Rebecca clung to that like an anchor.
The man frowned, typing quickly.
"There's no Lily on the list. This is an invite-only event."
Her heart dropped. Maybe she should've used Naomi's name.
"I—" she started, but a voice cut through the lobby like a blade.
"Let her in. I want her."
She turned toward the voice. A tall man in a black suit, flanked by two others, stood at the far end of the room. His face was unreadable behind dark shades, his posture screaming authority.
He scanned her from head to toe, then smirked. "Send her to my room."
Then he turned and walked off, the crowd parting for him.
The attendant arched a brow. "You're Lily, right?"
"I am," she replied, calm on the outside, but her stomach knotted with nerves.
"Well, you just got lucky," he muttered. "Not many get invited to Greg's private party."
Rebecca wasn't there for luck or charm. She was there for money. And she needed to know: who was Naomi supposed to dance for?
She leaned closer to the desk, lowering her voice. "Could you check who Naomi's original client was?"
She twirled a lock of hair, added a playful smile. The attendant didn't budge.
"You should be glad Greg wants you. Most girls pray for a chance like this." He glanced at his monitor again. "Lounge 205. That's where he'll be."
Rebecca batted her lashes once more, but the attendant remained stony-faced, clearly used to being flirted with.
"The changing room's the first door on your left," he added, then turned to the next guest.
She turned away, tension coiled tightly in her shoulders. Her fingers twitched as she texted Naomi: What's the name of the client?
No reply.
In the changing room, other women were already getting ready. The scent of perfume and powder hung in the air. No one spoke much. Rebecca sensed an unspoken rule: focus, don't intrude.
She slid off her coat, revealing a black satin bodysuit that hugged her curves. A deep neckline edged in lace made her look expensive, dangerous. She swapped her stilettos for her stage boots, sleek and tall, and reapplied her bold red lipstick.
Still no reply from Naomi.
Just then, the door swung open.
"Lily?" a woman called.
Rebecca turned. "That's me."
"You're keeping our client waiting," the woman said, clearly annoyed.
"Sorry." She reached for her mask.
But the woman stopped her.
"No masks. Greg doesn't like his dancers masked."
Rebecca froze. Her mask was more than part of the costume; it was her protection. Her double life depended on it. Still, she peeled it off and handed it over. Without it, she felt exposed, like walking into a storm without a coat.
Lounge 205 was dimly lit, almost smoky. Soft music filtered from hidden speakers. Rebecca was surprised to see another woman already on the pole, dancing with slow, hypnotic movements.
She joined her, gliding toward the stage, letting the rhythm wrap around her. Her body moved fluidly, each twist deliberate. She leaned close to the dancer and whispered, "How much is he paying?"
The woman smiled, brushing close. "He pays handsomely."
Vague. But encouraging.
Men lounged in expensive chairs, glasses in hand, laughter soft. Their eyes followed every move. Rebecca met the rhythm, bending with grace and heat.
The other dancer, tall and athletic, introduced herself between moves.
"Crystal," she mouthed, barely audible.
Rebecca tried to keep up with her pace. Crystal was seasoned, sharp. She gave Rebecca a slight nod of approval.
On the floor, Rebecca leaned in. "Do you know Naomi?"
Crystal tensed. Her smile stiffened. She said nothing and drifted away like smoke.
Moments later, a man in a sharp suit entered the room and gave a quiet instruction. Rebecca and Crystal were asked to step aside.
Crystal disappeared without a glance back. Rebecca checked her phone again. Still no response. Her anxiety bloomed.
She needed a moment. A bathroom break. Just to collect herself.
The hallway was narrow and dim. She found the restroom and slipped inside, locking herself in a stall. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her mask was gone. She felt stripped. Unprotected.
She sat on the closed toilet seat, elbows on knees, trying to breathe. She had to survive tonight. The rent. The medication. The nurse. The debt piled like bricks on her back.
A noise outside snapped her upright. Heavy footsteps. Voices.
The door slammed open.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"Check if anyone's in there," a man's voice ordered.
Panic lit up her spine. She stood on the toilet seat, hands gripping the walls to stay steady.
The steps moved from stall to stall, closer.
Closer.
She shut her eyes, praying. Don't open it. Don't see me.
Then just before her stall door was tested...
"Stink, come here," the voice called again.
The footsteps paused… then retreated. The door slammed shut behind them.
She remained frozen. Minutes crawled by before silence returned. Slowly, carefully, Rebecca stepped down, legs trembling. She unlocked the stall.
A gunshot cracked through the air.
She screamed before she even realized it. Instinct dropped her to the floor, shaking.
The door burst open. A figure filled the doorway, gun raised.
Blood was pooling just beyond him.
"You said it was clear," he snarled, not at her, but to someone behind him.
Rebecca gasped, crouching instinctively.
She couldn't hear anything now. Just ringing. Her hands shook as she pressed them against her ears.
Her phone buzzed, the screen flashing a message: His name is Greg.
The gunman froze, his face hardening as he read it.
He cocked the gun and pointed it at her.
The cold mouth of the gun stared back at her. She couldn't hear the music anymore, just the sound of her blood rushing through her ears.
'Please don't shoot,' she whispered, the words sticky in her dry throat.