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ALYHANA STEPPED PAST THE velvet curtain and into the dimly lit hallway behind the stage, the heavy bass of the club fading behind the thick walls. The sound of her heels clicked against the polished floor, her body still warm from the performance, her mind racing with thoughts she wished she could ignore. She held her chin high, just like she had when she entered the stage, and opened the door to the dressing room.
Inside, the fluorescent lights were harsh, buzzing above rows of cracked mirrors and makeup kits strewn about. The air was thick with the mix of sweat, hairspray, and perfume—familiar yet overwhelming. Lingerie hung haphazardly from lockers, heels were tossed on the floor, and half-finished drinks cluttered every surface. It was chaotic, loud, and the complete opposite of the control she had on stage.
She made her way to her corner, dropping her robe onto the chair, her makeup kit still open from earlier. Sitting down without glancing around, she kept her back straight, eyes fixed on her reflection as she reached for a makeup wipe to clean the sweat collecting on her temple.
Behind her, two voices broke through the noise, sharp and smug, clearly not bothering to lower their volume.
"I don't get what everyone's raving about," one girl said, her voice oozing with fake indifference. "She's not even that great. Her moves are basic. Violet Candy, my ass."
"Totally," the other chimed in, laughing. "And she's not even that pretty! Sure, she has curves, but so do we. That doesn't mean she should be dancing for the VIPs like she's a superstar."
Alyhana remained silent, just continuing to wipe her skin in steady motions, keeping her eyes on her reflection. Her expression didn't shift, though her jaw did tighten a bit. She grabbed her compact and started touching up her blush like she hadn't heard a word.
The first girl wasn't done, though.
"She acts like she's above everyone. Never chats, never hangs out. Is she too good to laugh with the rest of us?"
"Probably just faking the whole mysterious vibe because she knows she can't compete. But hey," the second girl added with a laugh, "I guess just grinding on the right lap gets you noticed."
Alyhana continued applying her eyeliner with a steady hand, even as her chest began to tighten. She had learned long ago not to give any reaction. As soon as you show them something, they dig in deeper. So, she focused on her reflection, her movements precise, her breathing steady.
Let them talk. What else could she do?
Staring at herself for a long moment, the compact resting gently in her hand, she paused. Her eyeliner was perfect. Her lipstick remained bold. Her outfit, though tight and revealing, hugged her body like it was custom-made. Anyone else would think she looked untouchable.
But all she could see was the version of herself she desperately wanted to forget.
She felt no pride here. No pride in anything.
Her eyes remained on her reflection as her thoughts began to drift, starting off quiet but growing louder the longer she looked.
Once, she was just a little girl who believed in simple, beautiful things. Someone who spent late nights in her mom's kitchen, covered in flour, rolling dough and dreaming of one day opening a bakery. Someone scribbling stories in worn notebooks, fantasizing about seeing her name on a book cover and imagining fans waiting to get her autograph under the bright lights of a bookstore. Back then, she thought she had all the time in the world. She thought dreams were just something you worked hard for until you reached them.
But look at her now.
Her parents were probably rolling around in their graves.
Sitting under flickering lights in a run-down dressing room, wiping sweat from her chest, reapplying makeup for the next dance, shaking her body for strangers who viewed her as a fantasy and coworkers who saw her as a competitor.
The laughter behind her kept going, even though they knew she was listening. The whispers, the jabs, and the glares came almost nightly, and she'd learned to pretend they didn't matter. But deep down, they hurt.
She hated this place.
She hated the color purple, the walls, the mirrors, the stage, the cheap perfume, the greedy eyes, the false compliments. She hated how she smiled like it didn't hurt. She hated the girls who pretended to be her friends when business was slow, only to turn cold when her name was on the VIP list.
But above all, she hated herself.
Not the mask. Not the performance. Herself.
She was the one who walked back into this life. She was the one who kept going after her uncle's death. She made excuses nightly about money and survival, all while knowing the truth—she had no idea how to escape.
Her jaw clenched as she slowly set the compact down and leaned forward, elbows resting on the counter. Her voice barely broke through the noise, low enough for only her to hear.
"Pathetic," she muttered.
She took in her face again. The flawless skin, the curled lashes, the violet-painted lips matching her stage name.
"Disgusting."
A knock came from outside the dressing room, followed by Lloyd's voice cutting through the music.
"Violet, you're needed in Room Seven. The birthday guy, uh... Kai wants you. Get moving."
She shut her eyes for a brief moment, releasing a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Then she stood, pulling her robe over her shoulders, tying it around her waist without glancing back at the mirror.
Alyhana couldn't be Alyhana right now.
Not if she wanted to make it through the night.
Blinking, her mascara-clad lashes heavy, she turned toward the door, staring at it like she hadn't just heard a name. Lloyd's voice faded down the hall, but his words stuck in her chest like ice.
Room Seven.
Her.
Kai... so that's his name.
She hadn't really thought he'd take her up on it. He didn't strike her as the type. All night he'd seemed cold, rigid, like the entire club repulsed him. He'd pushed other girls away like they were annoying flies. He barely touched his drink. His suit was too expensive, too perfect, and his silence was too sharp. She figured he was just another powerful guy with an inflated ego, someone who thought girls like her were nothing but background noise.
But apparently, even he wasn't immune.
She swallowed, suddenly aware of her heart racing beneath the robe. She didn't know him, not really—but she was good at reading people. It was a survival skill at this point. And based on what she'd seen, he was dangerous in a calculated way. The type of guy who didn't move without cause, thinking three steps ahead and only initiating contact when he wanted to.
That's why she'd zeroed in on him.
It wasn't planned. She hadn't danced with him in mind. But when their eyes locked during her routine and he didn't smirk or try to impress her like the others, something clicked. Instinct told her he was different, and she acted on it.
Leaning in, she pressed her body against his with a slow, teasing grind. Her lips brushed his ear, her voice dropping to that smoky tone she used to maintain control without desperation.
"I hear it's your birthday, big boy," she whispered, her breath warm. "Why don't we take this somewhere private? I'll give you a birthday to remember."
Then she kissed his cheek and walked away, thinking that would be the end of it.
Most men would've taken it lightly and moved on. She figured Kai was among them. He seemed too proud to follow a stripper into a back room. Too uptight to admit he wanted anything from someone like her.
But now here she was.
Staring at her reflection again, fingers tightening on her robe's sash.
She shook her head quickly, trying to push down the nerves.
She untied her robe and let it fall open as she turned back to her vanity. Her fingers moved quickly, sliding beneath the thin violet fabric of her costume to pull out the scattered bills that had been shoved in during her dance. Some were tucked in her bra, others at the band of her panties, all crumpled yet folded with urgency that typically came with lust and cash.
She laid them out on the table, smoothing each one as she counted quietly. Her brows raised halfway through the stack.
"One... two... three... five... seven..." she murmured, voice low and eyes narrowing with each bill. "No way."
She paused.
Her fingers hovered over the last few notes before she slowly added them up again.
A thousand freaking dollars.
Just for a dance?!
Her lips parted slightly, eyes darting up to the mirror as if she couldn't believe it. Her heart raced, mind spinning faster than it had all night. A thousand dollars for ten minutes, no backroom, no additional favors, no strings attached. Just her body, her rhythm, and that cold, unreadable man who looked like he wanted to pull her apart piece by piece.
Leaning back in her chair, still staring at the cash, she wrapped her hands around the stack, holding it to her chest as if to protect it.
She'd been dancing for years. Stripping longer than she cared to admit. She'd struck it lucky a few times with tips, had some generous clients, but this—this was money that didn't usually come her way without something extra.
Still, a few more nights like this and maybe she could finally see a way out.
She could pay off the last of her uncle's debt—the one he left her right before he died, the one that had suffocated her for years. She could stop rationing rent and utilities. She could eat like a normal person again. Maybe, eventually, she could even walk away from all of this.
Alyhana sprang up, tucked the cash into a secret pocket stitched into her makeup bag, and zipped it shut. She stowed the bag back in her locker and spun the dial. Her fingers were steady now as she picked up her powder, touched up the shine on her forehead, added gloss to her lips, and checked her reflection once more.
She didn't look like someone on the verge of changing her life.
She looked like Violet Candy.
And Violet Candy knew how to keep her mask on.
Grabbing her robe again, she strode to the door without pausing. Her heels clicked on the dressing room floor, the gossip behind her fading into mere background noise. She swung the door open, stepped into the hallway, and headed toward Room Seven.
Her heart hammered in her chest, but her expression stayed neutral.
After all, only the strong survive. Wasn't that what her uncle always said?