Miranda fought against the two men holding her arms, kicking out hard enough to make one grunt. The club smelled of smoke and expensive liquor, the kind of place that looked fancy but felt wrong the second you stepped inside. Velvet couches lined the walls, and girls in tiny outfits moved between tables where men laughed too loud.
Victor waved a hand, and the grips tightened. "Stop struggling, Miranda. You're only making it worse."
She glared at him, chest heaving. "This is illegal. You can't keep me here."
He stepped closer, pulling her passport from his pocket and waving it in front of her face. "You came on your own. Visa says work. Everything checks out." His smile turned mean. "Now you work for me. Dance, entertain, whatever the clients want. You make money, I make money. Your dad's debts go away."
"And if I refuse?"
Victor's eyes went cold. "Then Ethan gets a visit. Or your dad. Accidents happen you know?"
Her stomach dropped. She stopped fighting, but hate burned in her chest. The men let go but stayed close, blocking any run for the door.
Victor nodded toward a hallway. "Take her upstairs. Get her settled."
They marched her through the club, past the main floor where music already thumped even though it was daytime. Up a wide staircase with thick carpet, then down a long hall with numbered doors. One opened to a room with four narrow beds, dressers, and a shared bathroom. Clothes were scattered around, makeup everywhere.
Two women looked up when they pushed her inside. One tall with striking red hair and sharp features, the other younger with warm brown skin and short natural curls.
The redhead stood. "New one?"
"Miranda," the guard said. "Room with you. Show her how things work." He dropped her bag on an empty bed and left, locking the door from outside.
Miranda rubbed her arms where bruises were already forming. "They lock us in?"
The redhead shrugged. "During the day, yes. Keeps us from wandering." She held out a hand. "I'm Sofia. Been here longest. That's Amara."
Amara gave a small wave from her bed, where she was folding clothes. "Welcome, well sort of."
Miranda sat on the edge of her bed, looking around. No windows that opened, just a small one high up. "How long have you two been trapped here?"
Sofia sat across from her. "Two years for me. Came for a modeling gig. Same trick, fake job, and a real club." She lit a cigarette. "Amara's been here eight months."
"Nursing contract, I was supposed to get a nursing contract" Amara said quietly. "They promised hospital work."
Miranda nodded slow. "Architecture firm. It was called Apex Designs."
Sofia blew out smoke. "Victor loves that one. It sounds so real." She leaned forward.
"So first rule: do what they say downstairs. Smile, flirt, dance. Tips are yours, minus his cut. Second rule: never alone with the worst clients. Third: don't try to run. Guards are literally everywhere."
"I'm getting out," Miranda said flat.
Amara looked sad. "Many say that."
The door unlocked hours later. A guard brought trays of food, rice, chicken, fruit. "Eat. Work starts soon."
They ate in silence. Miranda forced it down, needing strength. After, Sofia helped her pick an outfit from the shared closet down the hall, a black dress, short and tight, heels she could still move in.
"Makeup heavy," Sofia said, brushing shadow on Miranda's eyes. "Hides tiredness."
Downstairs, the club was coming alive. Dim, heavy bass. Men in suits at tables, girls on stages. Victor spotted her from his spot near the bar and nodded approval.
"Start on the floor," Sofia whispered. "That table, easy group. Buy drinks, laugh at jokes."
Miranda walked over, forcing a smile. The men welcomed her quick, ordering champagne. She sat, chatted, let hands rest on her knee but pushed away anything higher. Tips came fast, folded bills tucked into her dress.
One private dance later, heat from a client's lap still lingering, she slipped to the bar for water. Her body was responding even when she hated it, months without real touch made everything sharper.
Sofia joined her. "You doing good. Keep it up." She shouted over the loud music.
Night wore on. More tables, more dances. She refused shots, stayed clear-headed Incase of anything. She counted money in her head, enough hidden in her dress for something, maybe.
Around midnight, shouts cut through the music from a private room down the hall. A girl's cry, men's laughter turning rough.
Sofia froze nearby. "Not our business."
Miranda moved anyway, heart pounding. She pushed through the curtain into the room. Three drunk men cornered a young blonde woman against the couch. She was petite, dressed too nice for this place, eyes wide with fear. One had her wrist pinned, another pulling at her dress.
"Get off her," Miranda said loud.
The men turned, laughing. "Mind your own, sweetheart."
She stepped in, grabbing the closest one's arm and twisting hard like she'd learned from bar fights back home. He yelped, swinging wild. She ducked, kneed him in the gut.
The second lunged. She elbowed his nose crunch, blood. The third one hesitated, then came at her. His fist flew so fast. She took a hit to the ribs, pain exploding, but fought back fierce.
The blonde girl slipped past during the chaos, running out.
Guards rushed in finally, pulling everyone apart. Miranda breathed hard, lip split, side throbbing.
Victor stormed in minutes later. "What the hell?"
One drunk pointed at her. "She started it!"
Victor grabbed Miranda's arm. "My office."
He dragged her down the hall, shoved her inside, slammed the door.
"You think you're a hero?" he yelled. "That girl, Whitmore's sister. You just made big enemies."
"I don't care," she spat, wiping blood from her mouth. "They were hurting her."
Victor paced. "Rich little bitch comes here to party, and they always think rules don't apply to them. She got what she deserved. Now her family will complain." He stopped, his face dark. "You will work double tomorrow. And stay out of trouble."
He left her locked in the office for an hour, maybe more. When a guard finally took her upstairs, Sofia and Amara waited and we're worried.
"Your face," Amara said, grabbing ice from the bathroom.
Sofia helped clean the cuts.
"Whitmore, that's huge money. Charles Whitmore runs buildings everywhere. He's a cold guy, never comes here himself. But his sister Lily parties too much."
Miranda winced as ice touched her lip. "She got out?" She asked.
"Yeah," Sofia said. "Saw her leave crying, on her phone."
Amara sat close. "You okay?"
"No." Miranda leaned back against the headboard. "But I'd do it again."
They talked quietly after lights out, Sofia shared the guards schedules, Amara whispering about weak spots in the club.
Miranda listened, planning already.
She slept off, her body aching from the fight.
Morning brought another tray, then prep for the day. Victor sent word: no breaks tonight.
Downstairs early, the club slower in daylight hours to have enough time at night. Miranda worked the bar area, wiping tables, mind racing.
Sofia pulled her aside mid-afternoon. "Word's spreading. That girl Lily, she's been asking about you. She wants your name."
Miranda's heart jumped. "Why?"
"Grateful, maybe. Or trouble." Sofia glanced around. "Victor's nervous. Whitmores have power. If she pushes..."
A guard approached fast. "Boss wants you. Now."
Victor waited in his office, face tight. On his desk sat a thick envelope.
"From the Whitmore girl," he said. "Thanks for last night. And a message, she wants to help you."
Miranda stared at the envelope. Help?
Victor shoved it toward her. "Take it. But tell her to stay away. This doesn't change anything for you."
She opened it later upstairs, cash, a lot, and a note in neat writing: Thank you. I owe you. I'll get my brother to fix this. Lily
Brother. Charles Whitmore.
But before she could think more, the door burst open.
Victor stood there with guards, holding her bag which was searched again.
"Change of plans," he said. "You're moving rooms. Alone. No more chatting with the girls."
As they dragged her out, Sofia mouthed sorry from her bed.
And down the hall, through a half-open door, Miranda saw Lily, blonde hair, talking fast on her phone, tears on her cheeks.
Their eyes met for a second.
Then the door slammed shut.