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Conversation diverted.

I reluctantly pick my phone up again to check the time. I’m due on stage in two minutes. I’ve checked my phone so many times yet forgot to check the clock each time.

I curse and rush out of the chair, bolting towards the door where the corridors glow red.

“Vix!” Corrine calls, and I pause in the doorway, turning to look at the mirror behind her, inspecting my green lace corset bralette and making sure my stockings are in place. Every dancer has a nickname—we never refer to each other by our real names in the club for privacy. You never know if there’s a stalker watching you.

Corrine’s right hip is cocked with arms folded across her purple robe—her post-performance cover-up. Over the last year, since we’ve been friends, I’ve learnt to recognise that as her ‘I know you’re bullshitting’ face.

I hate lying to people, especially since Corrine has been my only friend in years since that cursed day on my eighteenth birthday. She took me under her wing when I first started here. The girls were friendly, but it was obvious they’d already formed their own cliques. Corrine has been here the longest, so she’s been appointed a manager of sorts, always fluttering between friendship groups. I don’t fit in any of their groups. I’m not like them. I’m broken with a fucked-up past. A past that won’t stop catching up to me. Dragging her—or anyone—into my life’s problems is just not on the table. As much as I’ve needed a shoulder to cry on recently, I won’t allow myself to taint her life with my psychopathic ex-boyfriend. He’s the reason I haven’t allowed her to get too close. I only share what I feel comfortable sharing, which, honestly, isn’t much. She has a loving family and a degree she needs to focus on. I wasn’t so blessed in the family department—nor do I have anything of value to tell her about myself.

I mimic her stance. “Honestly, I’m fine. I’ll see you on the floor.” I blow her a kiss and run towards the stage through the glowing, smooth brick corridors, my black platform heels banging against each other in my hand.

I reach the backstage area—all cables and a plethora of machines to control the lighting, music, and stage screen.

Sam—the lighting and stage technician—widens his eyes at me when he sees me scrambling to get my heels on my feet.

“Vixen, you’re on in ten, nine, eight…” Sam’s voice trails off as the outside world fades away, and I mentally put myself in the role of Vixen. Hearing the roar of the crowd behind this screen every night sends a rush of energy through me that I only feel when I’m on this stage. When I can shut my brain off and lose myself to the music. Be someone else for a while.

I take in a deep breath and exhale as the screen lifts up with a quiet buzz, revealing the pole at the end of the stage. It’s a square stage with a short catwalk extending out into the crowd that ends in a circular shape. I catch a glimpse of the men in suits already both seated and standing around the stage, ready for my show, before I fully give myself over to the music.

The deep voice of Austin Giorgio floods through the speakers and into my eardrums with ‘You Put A Spell On Me’. I let the sensual pace of the song course through my veins, allowing it to guide my movements.

Seductively strolling towards the pole, I begin my routine. It’s one that I do often, because it gets the men watching every time. Most nights, I come out with two duffel bags of cash after just one performance.

Don’t fix something that isn’t broken.

My set is when the customers throw the majority of their money on the stage. Unlike most dancers, I only come out for one set a night, and I don’t offer private services. They take what they can get off me, and they spoil me to keep me coming back every night.

Here is when I can really feel in control of my body. It’s empowering being in a place that’s brimming with predominantly men—where they can look but not touch. Where they, as much as their instincts tell them to, can’t do anything but watch. There’s power in being able to control them, and I like it that way.

This is me taking back what was once stolen from me and doing it my way.

Throwing my head backwards, I grab onto the pole and let it spin me.

My gaze catches on something—or someone—in a booth at the back of the room, throwing me off course. On the final spin, I slide myself down to the floor and lock onto the stranger’s icy blue eyes.

A fervent feeling washes over me, and I momentarily slip back into myself, completely stunned at his attention. His eyes burn into my skin so intensely that I can feel him tracking every single movement I make. It makes the hair on my nape stand up, the beat of my heart to pick up.

Something flashes across his face, and the tension in his eyes dissipates, thick, dark eyebrows softening. It’s something akin to finding your favourite comfort blanket. In a blink, that look disappears, and his eyes darken as he leans back into the cushioned backrest.

I flow into my next move—albeit shakily—and wrap my thighs around the pole, arching back so I’m hanging upside down, my legs opening into a V.

He’s still staring at me when I turn in his direction after the next few moves. We’re a good distance away from each other, but his face looks like it was carved by the gods. All sharp angles and a thick stubble coating his jawline. It feels like I’m dancing in slow motion, unable to shake the weight of his gaze in that darkened booth.

My heart races as I finish my set, but it’s not from the dancing.

No.

It’s from the stranger who's looking at me as if I'm the only person in the room.

Cheers and whistles fill my senses once more, banknotes flying in the air and landing in front of me, but all I can focus on is him through the rain of money, breaths rapid. That’s when I notice he’s sitting with two other men, the three enclosed by two security men standing guard to the sides of the onyx booth.

My eyes widen momentarily as I realise who exactly is watching me.

Xander fucking Warren.

My boss.