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The club swallowed them in a wash of neon and bass. Dior and Hazel slipped through the crowd to the bar, only to find Vorden already surrounded — a girl clinging to his arm like she owned him. Dior rolled her eyes. "Well, he's gone," she muttered, nudging Hazel forward.
They took seats at the bar. The bartender — a tall guy with a nametag that read Mark — slid over with a friendly grin. "First time in a club?" he asked.
"Yes," the two answered in perfect sync.
"What brings you here tonight?" he asked, leaning on the counter.
"It's her birthday," Dior said, nodding toward Hazel.
Mark's voice boomed, "Everyone—give it up for Hazel! It's her birthday!" The club fell into a ripple of cheers. Hazel's cheeks flushed pink; she ducked her head and smiled shyly.
"What's your name?" Mark asked.
"Hazel, and this is Dior. Nice to meet you."
"Mark," he replied. "This one's on me." He poured a bottle of wine and set it between them. "If you need anything, just call."
They clinked glasses and downed the wine in one breath, the warmth spreading through Hazel like a dare. Hazel watched a pole dancer spin and slide with practiced heat, and Dior leaned in with a laugh. "They're wild, right?"
Hazel nodded, mesmerized.
Vorden reappeared with three glasses of whiskey. "Mark—three shots," he ordered.
Mark returned with the drinks and they toasted. "Happy birthday, Hazel — and Vorden." They drank. Laughter bounced around them like confetti.
Then Tirana — a flashy girl who'd been watching Hazel since they came in — stalked over. "Who are you?" she snapped at Hazel, eyes narrowing.
"New," Hazel said, small.
"Every new girl has to dance," Tirana said, pointing to the pole.
"I'm new too," another girl tried to say, but Tirana cut her off. "I'm not talking to you." Mark stepped between them, hands raised. "Enough, Tirana. Don't make a scene."
Tirana smirked, confident and cruel. "She's going to make a fool of herself." She crossed her arms and waited — certain of humiliation.
The DJ dropped a beat. Hazel didn't plan to dance; she was watching the movement like studying a foreign language. Two minutes later the music cut, and silence hung heavy — then the room exploded into applause. Hazel stood frozen in the echo of it, Dior's eyes wide. Tirana stormed off, furious and humiliated.
Dior came up behind Hazel, grinning. "Since when do you dance like that?" she whispered.
"Since never," Hazel admitted, cheeks warm. "I just watched and—"
"Of course you learned by watching. You always do. Now you teach me." Dior waggled her eyebrows.
Hazel's phone buzzed. She checked the message and her smile dropped. "I have to go," she said. "My uncle says it's an emergency."
"Are you coming back to the dorm?" Dior asked.
"I'll let you know." Hazel hugged Vorden. "Thanks for the ride."
"You're welcome," he said softly. Hazel left and headed into the night.
At home, the house was too quiet. Hazel stepped into the living room where her uncle sat at the dining table, eyes hollow and hands folded. "You wanted to see me?" she asked, taking the chair beside him.
He poured her a steaming cup of tea and set it in front of her. The steam rose in lazy spirals. Hazel took a sip. It tasted off—bitter at the edges—but she shrugged and swallowed.
"I owe someone ten thousand dollars," he started, voice low. "If I don't pay by tomorrow, they'll hurt the family."
Hazel's heart thumped. "I don't have that kind of money," she said, each word a small stone.
Her uncle rubbed his face. "Your parents' money is locked away with the lawyer until you turn eighteen. I used to have some, but—" He swallowed. "Listen. I have a deal. My boss will pay twenty thousand if you sleep with him. We split it."
Hazel's laugh snapped like glass. "You want me to—? You can ask Amber or anyone. I won't sell myself." The room dropped cold.
"He's fifty," her uncle said, voice flat. Hazel stood to leave, fury and disgust burning her throat.
A sudden, sharp pain stabbed her temple. The cup trembled in her hand and everything lurched. Her uncle's calm face tilted toward her, the shadow at the corner of his mouth like a knife.
"You wouldn't agree," he said quietly. "So I put something in your tea. He likes you. He only wants you."
Her protest died on her lips. The room tilted. Her uncle's words folded into static as darkness rushed in from the edges. Hazel's last coherent thought was a flash of betrayal — then nothing.
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