The copper bell above the door jingled as Evie pushed into Crumbs & Coffee, a bakery tucked between a dry cleaner and a cell phone repair shop. The warm scent of cinnamon and fresh bread enveloped her immediately. She scanned the small space, its exposed brick walls and hanging plants creating a cozy atmosphere that felt worlds away from the pulsing neon of Club Elysium.

Kimmy spotted her first, waving enthusiastically from a corner table where she and Mia had already settled with steaming mugs and a platter of pastries.

“Destiny!” Kimmy called, using her stage name with the easy familiarity of someone who’d known her for years rather than days.

Evie navigated between tables, noticing the mix of customers. A few workers were unwinding after work, several people were tapping away on laptops, a couple of elderly men were playing chess. The place had a lived in comfort that chain cafés could never replicate.

“We ordered you a latte,” Mia said as Evie slid into the empty chair. “Hope that’s okay. Kimmy insisted you looked like a latte person.”

“Perfect, actually,” Evie said, genuinely surprised by the thoughtfulness. “Thanks.”

“I’m excellent at reading people,” Kimmy declared, pushing the pastry plate toward Evie. “It’s my superpower. That, and being able to tell which men are terrible tippers before they even open their wallets.”

“A truly useful skill in our line of work,” Mia added dryly.

Evie laughed, selecting a cinnamon roll from the assortment. “So how long have you two been roommates?”

“Almost a year,” Mia answered, stirring her tea. “Met at the club. My previous roommate moved to Vegas, and Kimmy was living in this absolute nightmare apartment with paper-thin walls and a neighbor who practiced guitar at two in the morning.”

“It was either find a new place or commit a felony,” Kimmy said with mock seriousness. “Mia saved a life that day but whose life depends on your perspective.”

Evie bit into her pastry, savoring the sweetness. There was something surreal about sitting in this bakery with two women who danced naked for money, discussing roommate situations as if they were college students or young professionals in any other industry.

“How about you?” Mia asked. “Your place close to the club?”

“About fifteen minutes away,” Evie replied. “It’s nothing special, but it’s all mine. First time living alone.”

“That’s the dream,” Kimmy sighed dramatically. “No offense, Mia.”

“None taken. I’d kill for my own bathroom.”

“You’d miss me after a week,” Kimmy countered.

“Maybe,” Mia conceded with a smile.

Evie watched their easy banter with a pang of something like envy. They had a genuine friendship, the kind built on shared experiences and mutual trust. Her own closest friendship with Carla felt distant now, separated by more than just physical space.

“So what’s your story, anyway?” Kimmy asked, turning her attention back to Evie. “I mean, besides escaping the douchebag ex. What were you doing before this?”

The question was asked casually, but Evie recognized its importance. These women knew the industry, knew the typical backgrounds of dancers. Any inconsistency in her story could raise red flags.

“Retail,” Evie replied, the rehearsed answer coming easily. “Women’s clothing. Spent my days convincing rich women they looked amazing in overpriced dresses.”

“God, that sounds mind numbing,” Kimmy said.

“It was,” Evie admitted, drawing on her actual experiences at Veronique’s. “Standing for hours, dealing with entitled customers, making commission that barely covered my bills.”

“I hear that,” Mia nodded. “Before Elysium, I was a kindergarten teacher.”

Evie nearly choked on her latte. “Seriously?”

“Four years of wiping noses and tying shoelaces,” Mia confirmed, a hint of nostalgia softening her features. “I loved the kids, but the system is broken. Spent my own money on classroom supplies, worked sixty-hour weeks for poverty wages, had parents treating me like a glorified babysitter.”

“That’s brutal,” Evie said, genuinely surprised.

“One day, I just hit my breaking point,” Mia continued. “This helicopter mom came in raging because her precious Jayden got a ‘Needs Improvement’ on sharing. Meanwhile, I’m living paycheck to paycheck with student loans crushing me. A friend was dancing at a club downtown, making in two nights what took me two weeks to earn. She got me an audition, and…” She shrugged. “Best decision I ever made.”

“Now she teaches the new girls instead of five-year-olds,” Kimmy added with a grin. “Still has that teacher vibe sometimes.”

“Old habits,” Mia said. “But at least now when someone throws a tantrum, I can walk away instead of having to schedule a parent conference.”

Evie laughed, but her mind was racing. Mia was educated, intelligent, had worked in childcare. She wasn’t the stereotype of a woman driven to exotic dancing by desperation or lack of options. She’d made a calculated decision based on economic reality.

“What about you?” Evie asked Kimmy, genuinely curious now.

Kimmy took a sip of her iced coffee. “Pre-med dropout,” she said without a trace of embarrassment. “Three years of biochem and anatomy before I realized I was drowning in debt for a career I wasn’t even sure I wanted.”

“Wow,” Evie said. “That’s… not what I expected.”

“Never is,” Kimmy replied. “People have this image of dancers as damaged goods or desperate party girls but most of us are paying off student loans or supporting families. I make more at Elysium than my cousin who’s an ER nurse, and I don’t have to clean up bodily fluids. Well, not usually.”

The joke caught Evie off guard, and she laughed harder than she’d intended, tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying releasing suddenly.

“What about you?” Kimmy asked. “Any unfulfilled career dreams lurking beneath that retail exterior?”

The question hit uncomfortably close to home. Evie hesitated, debating how much truth to weave into Vanessa’s fabricated history. “I wanted to study criminal psychology,” she admitted, the words feeling strange in this context.

It wasn’t in her cover story, this fragment of Evie’s real past grafted onto Vanessa’s identity. But the moment the words left her mouth, she knew they fit.

“That’s actually pretty cool,” Mia said. “What happened?”

“Life,” Evie shrugged, the simplicity of the answer hiding the complexity of her real history. “Dad died. Family needed financial support. Dreams got deferred.”

“And then asshole ex-boyfriend happened?” Kimmy guessed.

“Something like that,” Evie said, relieved when Kimmy didn’t push further.

“Well, the good news is, you’re killing it at Elysium,” Mia said. “Weekend shifts already? That’s basically unheard of for someone so new.”

“Seriously,” Kimmy agreed. “Took me three months to get a Saturday slot. You must have really impressed the brothers.”

“I’ve barely spoken to them,” Evie demurred.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mia said. “They notice everything. Especially Victor.”

“What’s their deal, anyway?” Evie asked, trying to sound casually curious rather than investigatively interested. “They seem so different from each other.”

Kimmy and Mia exchanged glances.

“Victor’s the brains,” Kimmy said finally. “Damien’s the muscle. That’s the simple version.”

“And the complicated version?” Evie pressed gently.

Mia leaned forward slightly. “Victor sees the club as a business. Damien sees it as… I don’t know, a kingdom maybe? Victor cares about the bottom line. Damien cares about loyalty, respect, being feared, that kinda thing.”

“They sound like night and day,” Evie observed.

“More like different sides of the same coin,” Kimmy corrected. “They complement each other. Victor’s all calculation and control, but Damien’s volatile. You always know where you stand with Damien.”

“Usually beneath his boot,” Mia added with a grim smile.

“Have either of you had much interaction with them?” Evie asked.

“Some,” Kimmy admitted. “I’ve worked upstairs a few times. Special events.”

“What’s it like up there?” Evie couldn’t help asking. “The VIP section?”

“Different,” Mia said after a pause. “More intimate. The clients expect actual conversation, not just a sexy body. That’s why they’re selective about who works upstairs.”

“It’s not just about looks,” Kimmy added. “Half the girls in the club are gorgeous. They want women who can hold their own in a conversation, who understand discretion, who don’t ask questions about things they overhear.”

“And the money’s insane,” Mia continued. “One good night upstairs can equal a week on the main floor.”

“If you get invited to work up there,” Kimmy said, her eyes meeting Evie’s directly, “take it. Just… be careful.”

“Careful how?” Evie asked.

“The rules are different upstairs,” Mia explained. “More fluid. The lines between dancing and… other services… they get blurry.”

“And the men expect more for their money,” Kimmy added. “They don’t just want a dance; they want to feel like they own a piece of you, even if it’s just for an hour.”

Evie absorbed this information, filing it away for her eventual report. This was precisely the kind of intelligence that wouldn’t appear in surveillance footage or financial records. The human element, the unwritten rules, the expectations that shaped behavior.

“Anyway,” Kimmy said, clearly wanting to change the subject, “enough club talk. We have, what, an hour before we need to head over? Let’s talk about something else. Like why Miami men think tank tops with dress shoes is an acceptable fashion choice.”

The conversation shifted to Kimmy’s disastrous Tinder date the previous week, Mia’s ongoing battle with their apartment’s ancient air conditioning unit, the reality show they’d both become obsessed with.

As they talked, Evie found herself relaxing genuinely, laughing at Kimmy’s animated storytelling and Mia’s dry commentary. They were smart, funny, complex women who’d made pragmatic choices based on economic realities. Not victims, not deviants, just people navigating a flawed system the best way they knew how.

And they’d welcomed her, included her, shared their experiences without reservation. The guilt of her deception settled in her stomach like a stone. These women deserved better than lies, even lies told in service of a greater good.

“So what’s your situation now?” Mia asked as their conversation circled back to personal lives. “Dating? Taking a break? Sworn off men entirely?”

“Definitely a break,” Evie replied, the partial truth easier than an outright lie. “After five years with Trevor, I need to figure out who I am on my own.”

“Five years?” Kimmy winced. “That’s a long time to waste on someone who doesn’t appreciate you.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” Evie said, thinking of Joe, of their real relationship that bore no resemblance to Vanessa’s fictional past. “But yeah, I’m focusing on myself right now.”

“Smart,” Mia nodded. “Though fair warning, working at Elysium doesn’t exactly help with swearing off men. You’ll have more attention than you know what to do with.”

“Already experiencing that,” Evie admitted. “It’s… an adjustment.”

“Just remember,” Kimmy said, her tone becoming serious, “attention isn’t the same as respect. The guys who throw around the most money are often the ones who think they’re buying more than just your time.”

“Speaking from experience?” Evie asked gently.

“Let’s just say I’ve gotten better at telling the difference between interest and ownership,” Kimmy replied, something hardening briefly in her usually cheerful expression.

Mia checked her phone. “We should probably head out soon. Tanya gets pissy if we cut it close.”

“God forbid we’re not early to stand around naked,” Kimmy muttered, but there was no real bitterness in her tone.

They gathered their things, Evie insisting on paying for the pastries since they’d covered her coffee.

The three of them walked toward their cars, parked along the street.

“We should do this again,” Kimmy said. “Maybe Friday before shift? Same place?”

“I’d like that,” Evie replied, surprised by how much she meant it.

“It’s settled then,” Mia said. “Friday at four.”

As they reached their vehicles, Kimmy suddenly turned and hugged Evie, the gesture so unexpected that Evie froze momentarily before returning it.

“What was that for?” she asked, bemused.

“You looked like you needed it,” Kimmy shrugged. “Plus, I’m a hugger. Fair warning.”

“Consider me warned,” Evie laughed.

“See you at the club,” Mia said, giving Evie’s arm a quick squeeze before following Kimmy to their shared car.

Evie slid into her Honda, watching in the rearview mirror as Mia and Kimmy pulled away. An unexpected warmth filled her chest, a feeling of connection she hadn’t anticipated when she’d accepted this assignment. She’d assumed isolation, had prepared for it, had steeled herself against the loneliness of living a lie.

Instead, she’d found Mia and Kimmy, women who’d embraced her without question, who’d shared their stories and included her in their lives as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The friendship felt real, even if Vanessa Blake wasn’t.

As she started the car and headed toward Elysium, Evie wondered what would happen when this was all over. Would these friendships become casualties of the operation? Would Mia and Kimmy feel betrayed when they discovered that Destiny, the woman they’d welcomed so warmly, had never really existed?

The mission was becoming more complicated by the day.

—

Evie pushed through the dressing room door, with Mia and Kimmy following close behind. As usual, the space was buzzing, already filled with dancers in various stages of preparation.

As Evie moved to her station and began unpacking her bag, she felt rather than saw someone approach. Something about the woman’s posture, her movements, sent a jolt of recognition through Evie even before she turned to see her face.

Lexi. Except, of course, she wasn’t Lexi here. She was-

“Selena,” Mia supplied helpfully, gesturing between them. “This is Destiny. She just started Sunday.”

Lexi turned towards Evie with a smile that revealed nothing of their shared history. Gone was the ponytail and the calculating gaze, replaced by tumbling dark waves and smoky eyes. Even her body language had shifted, becoming more relaxed.

“The new girl everyone’s talking about,” Lexi said, extending a manicured hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Evie accepted the handshake, marveling at the complete absence of recognition in Lexi’s eyes. This wasn’t just acting. This was transformation. “Likewise. Is it always this chaotic before shifts?”

“Wednesday’s relatively tame,” Lexi replied, reaching for a makeup brush. “Wait until Friday night when the weekend warriors come down.”

“Destiny’s been added to the Friday and Saturday rotations,” Kimmy interjected, already stripping down to change into her first outfit. “Two full shifts in and already scoring prime real estate.”

Lexi smiled. “Impressive. Tanya must see something special.”

“Just lucky, I guess,” Evie said with a modest shrug.

“Luck,” Lexi repeated, a hint of amusement coloring her tone. “Right.” She turned and walked back to her mirror, effectively ending their exchange.

Evie focused on her preparations, selecting a deep burgundy outfit for her first set. The color reminded her of expensive wine, rich and intoxicating.

“Let’s make some money tonight ladies!” Loretta called out, clapping her hands together as she swept through the dressing room. “Industry night means solid tips if you hustle!”

The floor was already half-full when Evie emerged from the dressing room. Wednesday’s crowd had a different energy than Sunday’s businessmen or Tuesday’s mixed clientele.

Evie scanned for familiar faces but saw no sign of Henry. She felt a surprising twinge of disappointment. He had become something of an anchor in this unfamiliar world. The realization disturbed her. Developing attachment to a customer was dangerously unprofessional.

She pushed the thought aside and began her circuit, introducing herself to new faces, reacquainting with those she’d met on previous shifts. A group of three bartenders from a South Beach nightclub invited her to join them, and she settled gracefully into an empty chair.

“Industry night,” said the one who’d introduced himself as Pete, a solidly built man with an easy smile. Unlike the businessmen who often spoke to her breasts, he maintained comfortable eye contact. “First time working Wednesdays?”

“Is it that obvious?” Evie asked, crossing her long legs slowly, the movement drawing their attention despite their professional courtesy.

“We know most of the regular Wednesday girls,” the second man, Diego, explained. “Plus you have that new girl energy.”

“What’s new girl energy?” Evie asked, genuinely curious.

The third man, Ryan, leaned forward. “You’re still watching everything. Learning. The vets move around like they’re not even thinking.”

The observation was surprisingly astute.

“Guilty,” Evie admitted. “Tonight’s only my third shift.”

“No shit?” Pete looked impressed. “You seem like you’ve been doing this a while.”

“Natural talent,” Evie replied with a smile, the flirtatious response coming easily now. Three days in, and already Destiny’s voice had become familiar in her mouth.

The conversation flowed easily. These men understood the transactional nature of the interaction but approached it with a refreshing directness. They knew she was working, they knew the rules of engagement, and they respected the boundaries while still enjoying the fantasy she offered.

After fifteen minutes of engaging conversation, Evie excused herself to continue circulating. Throughout the evening, she maintained a steady rhythm of approaches, conversations, dances on the main stage, and private dances. The Sapphire Rooms saw a rotation of customers willing to pay for three-song sets, each leaving with slightly lighter wallets and significantly lifted spirits.

During a brief break at the bar where Jason provided her with another virgin sunrise, she observed Lexi working the room. Lexi moved differently here. More graceful, more inviting. Men watched her with hunger, and Lexi fed that hunger with bits of attention, never quite satisfying it fully.

“She’s good, isn’t she?” came a voice beside her.

Evie turned to find a man in his late thirties watching her watch Lexi. He wore a tailored navy suit that fit perfectly on his athletic frame, the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a crisp white shirt and no tie. His Mediterranean features gave him a perpetual hint of a tan and his dark wavy hair was slicked back, accentuating a strikingly handsome face.

“Very,” Evie agreed, shifting her attention to him. “I’m Destiny.”

“Michael,” he replied, his eyes moving over her with appreciation. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Just started Sunday,” Evie said, sipping her disguised juice cocktail.

“And already working the main stage?” Michael raised an eyebrow. “You must have made quite an impression.”

“I’m still learning the ropes,” Evie said.

“I’d be happy to contribute to your education,” he replied. “Maybe in one of the Diamond Suites?”

The directness of the proposition surprised Evie. Most clients engaged in at least some brief conversation before suggesting private dances, especially the more expensive option. Michael clearly operated with different assumptions about the interaction.

“That’s quite an investment in someone you just met,” Evie replied.

Michael smiled. “I recognize quality when I see it.” He leaned slightly closer. “Let’s say… four songs? A thousand for your time.”

The figure was nearly double the standard rate for a Diamond Suite session of that length. Either Michael was terrible with money, or he expected something extraordinary for his investment. Evie suspected the latter.

“How could I refuse such a generous offer?” she said, setting her glass down. “Lead the way.”

As they walked together toward the Diamond Suites, Michael’s hand rested lightly at the small of her back, his fingertips just grazing the exposed skin above her skirt.

Michael settled onto the edge of the circular bed rather than the couch, another departure from standard procedure. Evie adjusted, using the wall panel to select music with a slow, hypnotic beat. As the first notes filled the room, she began to move, letting her body respond to the rhythm.

“Tell me, Michael,” she said, approaching him slowly, “what brings you to Elysium on a Wednesday? You don’t strike me as hospitality industry.”

His eyes tracked her movement. “I own restaurants. Five in Miami, three in New York.” He said this without inflection, a simple statement of fact rather than a boast. “Wednesday gives me a chance to see how other service professionals spend their time off.”

Evie processed this information as she danced. Restaurant ownership aligned with his obvious wealth but didn’t fully explain his presence here, alone, on industry night.

“Research?” she asked, beginning to slowly unzip the side of her burgundy outfit.

“Curiosity,” he corrected, watching as she peeled the top portion of the outfit away, revealing her breasts. “I like understanding ecosystems.”

“And what have you learned about ours?” Evie asked, turning to offer him her back as she continued removing her outfit, now clad only in a burgundy thong.

“That it operates on many of the same principles as fine dining,” Michael replied. “Exclusivity, presentation, anticipation, satisfaction.” He paused as Evie turned to face him again. “The illusion of intimacy delivered through performance.”

The assessment was uncomfortably accurate, reducing her work, both as Destiny and as an undercover agent, to its fundamental mechanics. Evie maintained her composure, moving closer until she stood between his knees.

“And does knowing how the illusion works reduce your enjoyment of it?” she asked, placing her hands on his shoulders.

“Quite the opposite. Appreciating the expertise enhances the experience.” Michael’s hands came to rest on her hips, his touch firm but not demanding. “May I touch you?”

“Yes,” Evie replied, watching his expression carefully as his hands moved upward to cup her breasts.

Unlike Henry’s somewhat hesitant exploration, Michael touched her with confidence. Evie felt her body responding, nipples hardening.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his eyes meeting hers.

Evie straddled his lap, initiating the dance’s next phase. Michael’s arousal was evident beneath his trousers, pressing insistently against her as she began a slow movement. His hands moved to her ass, guiding her.

“What do you want from tonight, Michael?” Evie asked.

“The same thing everyone wants,” he replied. “The fantasy that this is real. That your desire matches mine. That if circumstances were different, this connection would continue beyond these walls.”

The frankness of his response caught Evie off guard. Most clients maintained the pretense that her attraction was genuine, unwilling to acknowledge the transactional nature of their interaction too explicitly. Michael’s self-awareness was simultaneously refreshing and disconcerting.

“And if I told you it could?” Evie asked, testing him.

Michael laughed softly, his hands squeezing her ass gently. “Then you’d be selling a different kind of fantasy, one I’m not interested in buying.” His expression grew more serious. “I prefer honest transactions. You provide expert service. I compensate you appropriately. No false promises, no messy emotions.”

“Very practical,” Evie murmured, leaning forward to bring her breasts against his chest. The song was approaching its end, the first of four he’d purchased.

“I find it freeing,” Michael replied. “When we both know exactly what this is, we can just enjoy it without pretending it’s something else.”

As the song transitioned to the next, Evie rose from his lap, turning to present her back to him again.

Evie hesitated for a fraction of a second. She hadn’t gone fully nude in a private dance before. But something about Michael’s straightforward approach made the decision easier. There was no pretense between them, no illusion that this was anything but a transaction. Paradoxically, that honesty created a strange comfort.

If she was going to advance in this club, gain access to the VIP section and the intelligence she needed, she’d have to embrace Destiny’s boldness fully. This was part of the job, a boundary she needed to cross to maintain her cover and further her mission.

With newfound resolve, she hooked her thumbs into her thong, lowering it slowly. Michael watched with appreciative attention as she stepped out of the garment, leaving her completely naked save for the stilettos.

When she returned to his lap, the sensation of his pants against her bare skin sent a jolt through her, the friction creating delicious pressure against her increasingly sensitive flesh. Michael’s hands returned to her body, exploring with confident strokes that somehow managed to be both respectful and intensely erotic.

“You’re responsive,” he observed, his fingers tracing patterns along her inner thighs, coming tantalizingly close to her pussy without actually touching it. “That’s rare in this setting.”

Evie’s breath caught as his thumb brushed lightly over her nipple. “Maybe you’re just good at this,” she responded.

“Experience helps,” he conceded. “But chemistry can’t be manufactured.”

His hands continued their exploration, mapping her body. Unlike some clients who groped blindly, Michael touched her as if each caress was designed to elicit responses.

By the third song, Evie had settled into a rhythm that brought her repeatedly against the bulge in his jeans, the friction building a dangerous heat between her thighs. She was wet, undeniably so, her body betraying her with its honest response to skillful stimulation.

“You could cum like this, couldn’t you?” Michael murmured. “Just from this contact.”

The observation startled her. “That would be unprofessional,” Evie replied, her voice shakier than she intended.

“Maybe,” he acknowledged. “But true.” His hands tightened on her hips, guiding her into a more deliberate rhythm against him. “I find truth arousing.”

Evie’s entire presence here was built on elaborate falsehoods. Yet in this moment, her body’s responses were perhaps the only genuine thing about her situation.

Michael seemed to sense her internal conflict, his hands relaxing slightly though not releasing her. “Too much?” he asked.

“Just unexpected,” Evie admitted. Destiny wouldn’t be thrown off balance by a client’s perception, no matter how accurate. “Most men prefer the illusion.”

“I’m not most men,” Michael replied. He adjusted her slightly on his lap, the movement bringing his hardness more directly against her pussy. “Let go if you want to. Or don’t. Your choice.”

The fourth song was nearing its conclusion, the pulsing beat matching the throb between her thighs. Evie found herself at a crossroads, her body urging her toward release while her mind cautioned restraint. The professional in her knew that crossing this line would fundamentally alter her relationship to the work, blurring the boundary between performance and authentic experience.

Yet Destiny would make a different calculation. For her cover to be convincing, wouldn’t she need to embrace these moments rather than resist them? The rationalization felt dangerously convenient, but Evie clung to it as she allowed herself to move more deliberately against Michael.

She shifted her weight, settling herself more firmly against the rigid outline of his cock. Evie began to roll her hips in a slow, deliberate motion, pressing her dampening pussy downward while grinding forward and back. Each rotation sent electric currents through her core as his hardness hit exactly the right spot, directly against her clit.

“That’s it,” he encouraged as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her ass. “Show me.”

The permission, freely given without expectation, somehow made it easier. Evie closed her eyes, abandoning herself to the raw, primal sensation, to the delicious friction as she worked herself against his thick hardness. Her pussy throbbed with need, slickness soaking through the pants separating them.

When the climax tore through her, it was violent and unexpected. Her cunt clenched hungrily around nothing as waves of pleasure radiated outward from her core. Her thighs clamped around his, body shuddering as she rode out each pulse.

Michael held her through it, his hands guiding her trembling hips, his eyes darkening with lust as he watched her come undone. As the final notes of the song faded, Evie found herself in the strange position of having experienced something authentic in the midst of an elaborate deception.

“Thank you,” Michael said simply as she rose from his lap, his arousal still evident but his composure unbroken. He reached into his pocket and extracted a fold of bills, handing them to her in a way that suggested this was far from his first such transaction. “For exceeding expectations.”

Evie accepted the money, not bothering to count it in his presence. “The pleasure was mutual,” she replied, the admission carrying more truth than she’d intended.

Michael smiled. “I hope our paths cross again, Destiny.”

“Friday and Saturday,” Evie heard herself say. “I’ll be here.”

“Then so will I,” he replied, standing to straighten his clothing. “Perhaps we can continue your… education.”

He exited the suite, leaving Evie alone with her scattered clothing and the echo of an orgasm still pulsing through her body. She dressed quickly, her mind racing to compartmentalize what had just happened.

She’d crossed a huge line. One she hadn’t even realized she was approaching. Experiencing physical pleasure with a client regardless of the circumstances, regardless of her undercover status, represented a significant shift in her relationship to this assignment. The fact that it had happened so naturally, without deliberate intent, made it all the more unsettling.

What would Joe think? The question rose, sending a stab of guilt through her chest. She pushed it aside. Joe couldn’t understand the complexities of deep cover, the necessary compromises, the blurring of boundaries. This was just her body responding to physical stimulation. It didn’t mean anything.

The rationalization felt empty even as she formulated it.

Back on the main floor, Evie continued her shift, her mind still processing the Diamond Suite encounter with Michael. She danced, smiled, flirted, performed private dances in Sapphire Rooms, all while maintaining the persona of Destiny. Yet underneath, questions churned. How much of herself could she surrender to this role before losing sight of the boundary between Evie and Destiny? How many more lines would she cross before the mission ended?

During a brief break in the dressing room, Evie finally counted Michael’s payment. A total of $1500 in bills were neatly folded together. It was more than what he’d promised. The extra money wasn’t for the dance but for her response to it, a bonus for authenticity in a world built on fantasy. She tucked the bills into her locker, unsure whether to feel proud of her earning power or disturbed by what had earned it.

Loretta approached as Evie was touching up her makeup.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the house mom observed, settling onto the chair beside her. “Everything alright?”

“Just processing,” Evie replied vaguely. “It’s been an… educational evening.”

Loretta’s smile suggested she understood more than Evie had said. “Let me guess. First time feeling something real during a dance?”

Evie’s head snapped up, her eyes meeting Loretta’s in the mirror. “How did you-”

“Honey, I’ve been in this business longer than you’ve been alive,” Loretta interrupted gently. “I’ve seen that look before. That ‘oh shit, I wasn’t supposed to enjoy that’ panic.”

“I’m married,” Evie blurted out, the admission escaping before she could stop it. Her heart raced as she realized her mistake. Vanessa Blake wasn’t married. She was a single woman who’d left an abusive relationship.

Loretta’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Separated, I’m guessing? Given what you mentioned about leaving your ex?”

Evie seized the lifeline. “We’re… it’s complicated. We’re technically still married, but I left him. He doesn’t know where I am.” The fabrication came easily, building on her established cover while incorporating this new element. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Loretta assured her. “But for what it’s worth, feeling something during a dance doesn’t make you unfaithful. It makes you human.” She patted Evie’s hand. “What happens here stays here, separate from the rest of your life.”

If only it were that simple, Evie thought. But she nodded gratefully nonetheless. “Thanks, Loretta.”

“Anytime, sugar. That’s what house moms are for.” Loretta stood, adjusting her dress. “Now fix your lipstick and get back out there. The night’s still young.”

The rest of the shift included more stage performances and interactions, each successful but somehow less impactful than the Diamond Suite encounter. By 3 AM, the crowd had thinned considerably, industry workers returning home to catch what sleep they could before tomorrow’s shifts began.

Evie was collecting her belongings in the dressing room when Tanya appeared, clipboard in hand.

“Destiny,” she called, gesturing Evie over. “A word before you leave.”

Evie approached, wondering if somehow her slip to Loretta had made its way to management. “Everything okay?”

“More than okay,” Tanya replied, consulting her clipboard. “Your numbers tonight are impressive. Again. Three nights, three strong performances. That’s consistency, which is what I mentioned matters most here.”

Relief washed through Evie. “Thank you.”

“I wanted to brief you on the Friday and Saturday expectations,” Tanya continued. “Weekend shifts are different. Higher volume, higher energy, higher stakes. Customers expect more, tip bigger, but also push boundaries harder.”

“I can handle it,” Evie assured her.

Tanya regarded her with an appraising look. “I believe you can. I’ve never seen anyone pick this up so quickly.” She tapped her pen against the clipboard. “That’s why I wanted to give you a heads up. The Maddox brothers will be here both Friday and Saturday, and they’ll be watching you specifically.”

Evie’s pulse quickened as she maintained Destiny’s composure. “Because of our meeting on Sunday?”

“That, and your numbers since then,” Tanya confirmed. “Victor was quite impressed with your conversation. He said you understood the power dynamics of the club instinctively. And Damien…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Damien’s been asking about you. That’s significant.”

“I haven’t even met him properly,” Evie said, genuine surprise in her voice.

Tanya smiled. “Sometimes that’s not necessary. The point is, they’ve taken an interest in seeing what you can do on the weekend stage. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself but be aware that their attention is both an opportunity and a spotlight.”

“I understand,” Evie replied, mentally cataloging this valuable intelligence. Direct attention from both brothers would accelerate her mission timeline substantially.

“Be here by 5 PM on Friday. The crowd arrives earlier, stays later, and spends more freely. Pace yourself. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

“I will,” Evie promised. “And thank you for the heads-up about the Maddox brothers. I appreciate knowing they’ll be watching.”

“You’ve earned their interest,” Tanya said with a slight shrug. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.” She checked her watch. “Get some rest. Friday will be here before you know it.”

After her conversation with Tanya, Evie made her way toward the bathroom, needing a moment of solitude, a fragment of privacy to gather herself.

Her makeup remained perfect, the careful work of Destiny, but something in her eyes had changed. The confident mask had slipped, revealing glimpses of the turmoil beneath.

She splashed cold water on her wrists, a trick her mother had taught her for cooling down quickly. It wasn’t working.

Just three nights in, and already the boundaries between Evie and Destiny were blurring beyond recognition. The Diamond Suite encounter with Michael replayed in her mind, her body’s betrayal still fresh in her memory.

“Breathe,” she whispered to her reflection. “Just breathe.”

The bathroom door swung open, and Evie glanced up to see Lexi, no, Selena, enter. Their eyes met in the mirror, and something flashed across Lexi’s features. Recognition of the state Evie was in.

Without breaking character, Lexi checked beneath the stall doors, confirming they were alone, before her posture subtly shifted.

“You look like shit,” Lexi said, her voice low but unmistakably her own, not Selena’s. She moved to the sink beside Evie, pretending to check her lipstick.

“Thanks.” Evie’s voice sounded flat even to her own ears.

Lexi studied her in the mirror, her gaze sharpening. “What’s wrong? You’re pale.”

“Nothing. Everything.” Evie shook her head. “Tanya just told me the Maddox brothers will both be here Friday and Saturday. They’ll be watching me specifically.”

Something flickered across Lexi’s face, too quick to identify. “That’s good. That’s progress. Faster than we anticipated.”

“Yeah.” Evie swallowed. “Great progress.”

Lexi’s eyes narrowed, seeing beyond Evie’s brittle composure. “Something else happened.” It wasn’t a question.

Evie stared at her own hands, gripping the edge of the sink too tightly. “I crossed a line tonight.”

“With a client?” Lexi kept her voice casual, as if they were discussing nothing more significant than the weather, but her eyes were sharp, assessing.

“I…” Evie faltered, the words sticking in her throat. “I didn’t expect to respond like that.”

Understanding dawned in Lexi’s eyes. “You got off,” she stated bluntly.

Evie’s silence was confirmation enough.

Lexi checked the door again before continuing. “Listen to me carefully. What happens in those rooms is separate from who you are. It’s a physical response, nothing more. It happens more often than you’d think.”

“Not to me. It shouldn’t have happened to me.” Evie’s voice cracked. “I’m married.”

“You’re undercover,” Lexi corrected. “Your body doesn’t know the difference between real and pretend when it comes to physical stimulation.”

“It feels like cheating.”

“It’s not,” Lexi countered. “It’s a physiological response. Nothing more.”

But it had been more. It had been surrendering to something Evelyn Sinclair would never have allowed.

“I need to tell you something else,” Lexi said, shifting topics. “I won’t be at the club this weekend.”

Evie’s head snapped up. “What? Why not?”

“Mission parameters changed. There’s another location I need to check.”

Panic flared in Evie’s chest. “So I’ll be alone with them?”

“You’ll be surrounded by other dancers and customers,” Lexi responded. “This is what we trained for, what you’ve been building toward. Their interest means the operation is advancing.”

“And if they expect more than dancing?” Evie asked, the question carrying the weight of what had happened with Michael.

Lexi turned to face her directly, dropping all suggestion of casual conversation. “You maintain control. Always. If they invite you upstairs, that’s a win for the mission. But like Victor told you, the dancer dictates the terms of engagement.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of forgetting,” Evie admitted.

Something softened in Lexi’s expression. “After my first deep cover operation, I spent three days in my apartment trying to remember who I was before,” she said, the admission clearly costing her. “It gets easier, but it never gets easy. The difference between good operatives and great ones is knowing where the line is between necessary compromise and losing yourself completely.”

“And where exactly is that line?” Evie asked.

Lexi turned back to the mirror, reapplying her lipstick with steady hands. “You’ll know,” she said simply.

The door swung open as another dancer entered, immediately launching into a complaint about a handsy customer. Lexi’s demeanor shifted instantly, becoming Selena once more, laughing sympathetically at the dancer’s story.

Evie took the momentary distraction as her opportunity to exit. “Good night, ladies,” she said, slipping past them and back into the hallway.

The conversation with Lexi had steadied her somewhat, though the discomfort lingered beneath the surface. The mission was progressing exactly as planned. Faster, even. That should have felt like victory.

Instead, it felt like quicksand.

Evie gathered her things and then opened her locker to collect the night’s earnings. She settled at her station to count properly.

Final count: just over four thousand dollars. For one night’s work.

She tucked the money securely into an inner compartment of her bag, then changed into her street clothes. Jeans and a loose sweater that transformed her back into something closer to Evie, though not quite. Her makeup remained, and beneath her comfortable clothes, her body still buzzed with the muscle memory of the night’s performances.

“Ready to get out of here?” Kimmy asked, approaching as Evie zipped her duffel bag closed. “We’re heading to that all night diner on Collins if you want to join.”

Evie hesitated, tempted by the normalcy of post work meals with colleagues, by the chance to push the Diamond Suite encounter from her mind. But the weight of what had happened, of what she needed to process alone, made the invitation feel impossible.

“I should get home,” she said, forcing a tired smile. “Rain check?”

“Sure thing,” Mia said, joining them. “But you’re coming out with us after Friday’s shift. Weekend nights require decompression. Non-negotiable.”

“Deal,” Evie agreed, shouldering her bag.

They walked through the empty club toward the employee exit, their conversation shifting to weekend predictions and customer anecdotes. In the parking lot, Evie’s hand trembled slightly as she fished for her keys.

“You good to drive?” Kimmy asked, noticing the tremor. “You look a little shaken.”

“Just tired,” Evie lied. “First week catching up to me.”

“First weeks really are brutal,” Mia agreed sympathetically. “Get some sleep. Drink water. Take care of that money making body.”

Evie managed a laugh. “Yes, mom.”

Kimmy squeezed her arm gently. “Seriously though. This job gets intense. If you need to talk, we’ve been there. Give us a call.”

For a moment, Evie almost considered confiding in them, sharing some sanitized version of her turmoil. The temptation to connect genuinely with these women who’d welcomed her so easily was overwhelming. But the mission parameters held her back, the wall of necessary deception standing firm.

“I appreciate that,” she said instead. “I’ll see you Friday.”

As they separated toward their respective cars, Evie felt the weight of isolation. The intimacy she’d shared with a stranger in the Diamond Suite felt cruelly ironic against the distance she maintained from people she might actually like.

—

The apartment door closed behind Evie with a soft click that seemed to release something within her. She dropped her bag to the floor, keys clattering beside it, and pressed her back against the door, sliding down until she sat on the cold tile.

The tears came suddenly, violently, ripping through her chest in painful sobs that she couldn’t contain. Her body shook with the force of them, guilt and confusion and shame colliding in a storm of emotion she’d held at bay since leaving the Diamond Suite.

“What am I doing?” she whispered between gasping breaths. “What the fuck am I doing?”

The image of Joe rose in her mind, his gentle nature, his trusting smile, his complete faith in her, intensifying her sobs. How could she face him now? How could she return to their life together after crossing lines she never imagined she’d approach?

She thought of Michael’s hands on her body, of the genuine pleasure that had coursed through her veins. It hadn’t been forced or faked. The shame wasn’t that she’d been violated, but that she’d participated willingly, enthusiastically.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, though Joe couldn’t hear her. “I’m so sorry.”

She remained there, back against the door, for several minutes, until the sobs subsided into hiccupping breaths. She felt drained and hollow.

Eventually, Evie pulled herself from the floor, gathering her keys and bag. She looked at the duffel bag. Four thousand dollars. Payment for services rendered, including an authentic orgasm that she hadn’t intended to deliver.

She needed to check in. No matter how shattered she felt, the protocol demanded that she report after each shift. Evie moved to the kitchen counter where the burner phone sat. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to clear her vision enough to use the device.

The secure messaging app opened. Evie stared at the blank message field, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Green for all clear. Yellow for caution but operational. Red for immediate danger.

What qualified as yellow? Physical danger, operational risk. Not emotional breakdown. Not moral compromise. Not the realization that she was losing herself.

But she couldn’t pretend everything was fine. She couldn’t type “green” and act as if tonight had been just another successful shift. The words wouldn’t come.

Evie began typing.

“Shift complete. Confirmed both Maddox brothers will be present Friday and Saturday, showing specific interest in my performances. Client interactions continue to build cover credibility. Status yellow.”

She hit send before she could reconsider. The response came almost immediately: “Specifics on yellow status required.”

Evie’s thumbs hovered over the keyboard again. How could she possibly explain? I got off while giving a lap dance? I’m starting to enjoy aspects of this cover identity that I absolutely shouldn’t? I’m afraid of what I’m becoming?

“Maintaining cover identity becoming challenging. Experiencing difficulty separating performance from personal boundaries. Need guidance on psychological compartmentalization.”

The reply took longer this time. Nearly five minutes passed before the screen illuminated again.

“Understood. Psychological bleed between cover and true identity common in deep cover operations. Remember: actions taken as cover identity serve mission objectives and do not reflect on core self. Focus on intelligence gathering concerning primary targets. Psychological support available if required.”

The clinical response made Evie want to hurl the phone across the room. “Psychological bleed.” Such a bullshit term for what felt like her soul fragmenting.

She typed a final message: “Acknowledged. Will maintain focus on primary mission objectives.”

Setting the phone aside, Evie moved to the bathroom, stripping off her clothes as she went. The shower blasted hot water against the tile as she adjusted the temperature. She stepped under the spray, letting it pound against her scalp, her shoulders, her back. The water washed away the remnants of her makeup, mascara creating black streams down her cheeks, but she couldn’t wash away the memory of Michael’s hands on her body, of her own betraying response.

She scrubbed until her skin was pink, as if she could somehow erase the sensation of his touch. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. The water eventually ran cold, forcing her to shut it off.

Wrapped in a towel, hair dripping onto her shoulders, Evie moved to the bedroom. She stood in front of the mirror, examining the woman reflected back at her. Who was she now? Evelyn Sinclair, devoted wife? Vanessa Blake, escaping an abusive past? Destiny, exotic dancer capable of climaxing on a stranger’s lap for the right price?

“You’re Evie,” she told her reflection firmly. “You’re still Evie.”

But the woman in the mirror looked unconvinced, her red-rimmed eyes holding questions rather than certainty.

Evie turned away, unable to face herself any longer. She pulled on an oversized t-shirt from the dresser, one she’d brought from home.

She slipped between the sheets, but sleep seemed impossible. Her mind raced with replays of the night’s events, with justifications, and the constant, gnawing question: What would Joe think if he knew?

“I could quit,” she whispered into the darkness. “I could just walk away.”

The thought was tempting. She could call Grant in the morning, tell him she was done. She could return to Joe, make up some story about the assignment ending early, and try to rebuild what they had.

But then what? David would face charges. The Maddox brothers and Malcolm Kessler would continue their operations, potentially killing more people. And she would live with the knowledge that she’d failed, that she’d backed away when things got difficult.

Besides, she’d already crossed the line with Michael. That couldn’t be undone. Quitting now wouldn’t erase what had happened, wouldn’t magically restore her to some state of innocence.

And there was the money to consider.

Evie did the mental math as she stared at the ceiling. She’d started with about $6000 in her accounts, money that Vanessa Blake had supposedly saved. After three nights at Elysium, she’d earned over $9,000. The clothing and make up had cost nearly $3,000, meaning she was sitting on approximately $12,000. A net gain of $6,000 in just three days of work.

At this rate, she could amass a small fortune by the time the mission ended. The promised $100,000 completion bonus would be supplemented by her earnings at the club. Financial freedom. A cushion that would allow her and Joe to put a significant dent in their mortgage, maybe even pay it off entirely depending on how long the assignment lasted.

If Joe would still have her when it was over.

The thought sent a fresh wave of anguish through her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus on the logic, the rationality of continuing. This was a job. A mission. Nothing more. What happened in those rooms wasn’t real, even when her body’s responses were authentic. It was performance, a means to an end.

But the line between performance and reality was blurring faster than she’d anticipated. Three nights in, and already she’d experienced genuine pleasure with a client. Where would she be after three weeks? Three months?

Exhaustion eventually won out over her spiraling thoughts, dragging her into fitful sleep punctuated by dreams where Joe watched her dance, his expression unreadable as she performed for other men. She woke several times, disoriented and anxious, before falling back into uneasy slumber.

—

Evie straddled Michael on the Diamond Suite’s bed. Her naked body glistened with sweat in the dim light as she braced herself, fingers splaying across his chest. Her thighs trembled with exertion as she pressed her pussy down and rolled her hips to match the beat of the song.

She was completely naked, not a stitch of clothing left to separate them, no thong or G-string to maintain the illusion that this was just a dance. Michael, too, was naked beneath her, his cock buried deep inside, stretching her in ways that made her gasp with each movement.

This wasn’t a lap dance anymore. This wasn’t a performance.

Her body responded as if it had been waiting for this moment. Pleasure built with each roll of her hips. She leaned forward, changing the angle, a moan escaping her lips as he hit that perfect spot inside her.

His hands slid up to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing across her nipples.

The touch sent electric currents through her body. She arched her back involuntarily. She was close now, the tension building to an unbearable peak. Her rhythm faltered as the first tremors of orgasm began to ripple through her.

“Let go if you want to.” Said Michael. “Or don’t. Your choice”

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was Evie Sinclair. She was married. She was undercover.

She turned her head.

Joe stood in the corner of the room, watching.

His face wasn’t contorted with rage as she might have expected. Instead, it held something worse. Disappointment mingled with disgust. His eyes, usually warm and filled with love when they looked at her, now burned with repulsion, as if he didn’t recognize the woman he’d married.

“Joe,” she gasped, trying to pull away from Michael, but her body wouldn’t respond. Her hips continued their rhythm, her body chasing release even as her mind recoiled in horror. “Joe, please, I can explain-”

She turned back to Michael, unable to bear Joe’s judging gaze.

“That’s it,” Michael urged. “Show me.”

When she looked at the corner again, her father stood where Joe had been. His eyes held the same disappointment, the same quiet judgment. The man who’d built his life on honor and integrity, who’d raised her to know right from wrong.

“Daddy,” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks even as her body betrayed her, the pleasure still building, unstoppable now. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Her orgasm crashed through her, her body shuddering with involuntary pleasure even as sobs tore from her throat.

Her alarm blared.

Evie jerked upright in bed, a strangled cry dying in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her body drenched in sweat. For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was, the unfamiliar bedroom disorienting her further.

Then it all came rushing back. The apartment. The mission. The Diamond Suite. Michael.

She fumbled for her phone on the nightstand, silencing the alarm with trembling fingers. It was 12 PM.

Evie pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as she tried to steady her breathing. The dream had felt so real. The sensations, the emotions, all of it visceral and immediate.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and shameful. She wiped at them roughly with the back of her hand, but they kept coming, her chest tight with sobs she tried to suppress.

“It was just a dream,” she whispered to the empty room, her voice hoarse. “It wasn’t real.”

But parts of it had been real. Not the sex. She hadn’t crossed that line, but the pleasure, the response of her body to a stranger’s touch. That part had been real. That part she couldn’t deny or explain away.

She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to block out the images from her dream. Joe’s face. Her father’s face. Their disappointment. Their judgment.

“Stop it,” she told herself fiercely. “Just stop.”

She forced herself to breathe deeply, counting each inhalation and exhalation. After several minutes, the panic subsided enough for her to untangle herself from the sheets and swing her legs over the side of the bed.

Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since the pastry at the coffee shop with Mia and Kimmy yesterday. No wonder she felt so shaky.

Evie pushed herself to her feet, swaying slightly as a wave of dizziness washed over her. She needed food, water, and to wash away the remnants of her nightmare.

In the bathroom, she forced herself to look in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. Her eyes were puffy and red, her face pale. She looked like hell.

“Pull it together,” she told her reflection firmly. “This is the job. You knew it wouldn’t be easy.”

But she hadn’t known it would be like this. Hadn’t anticipated how quickly the lines would blur, how easily her body would betray her principles, how difficult it would be to maintain the separation between Evie and her cover identity.

She splashed cold water on her face, trying to shock herself back to some semblance of normalcy. The woman in the mirror stared back at her, eyes haunted.

“You’ve got this,” she whispered to herself, not entirely convinced but needing to hear the words anyway.

In the kitchen, Evie opened the refrigerator and surveyed its contents. The shelves held basic staples. A few eggs, expired milk, nearly expired yogurt. Food she hadn’t purchased, selected by faceless analysts who had constructed Vanessa Blake’s life down to the contents of her refrigerator.

In fact, every aspect of this apartment had been curated to create the illusion of a life that didn’t exist. She was living inside a stage set, a carefully constructed fiction.

Evie grabbed the yogurt and granola, needing something in her stomach before she could think clearly. She ate standing at the counter at first, then forced herself to move to the small dining table, to sit properly and act like a human being rather than the hollow shell she felt like.

The food helped. As she ate, her thoughts began to organize themselves.

She couldn’t continue like this, fragmented and raw. If she was going to survive this assignment, let alone succeed at it, she needed to find a way to reconcile the person she’d always been with the role she now had to play.

Lexi’s words from the bathroom echoed in her mind: “What happens in those rooms is separate from who you are.”

Was that true? Could she compartmentalize to that degree? Create a version of herself that could do what needed to be done without contaminating the core of who she was?

Evie wasn’t sure, but she knew she had to try. The alternative was to quit, to fail, to leave the Maddox brothers free to continue their operations, to let David face the consequences of his actions alone.

That wasn’t an option.

After finishing her yogurt, she made scrambled eggs, forcing herself to eat slowly, to treat her body with the care it needed to function.

As she ate, she looked around the apartment with fresh eyes. If she was going to live here, truly live here for what might be months, she needed to make this space her own, or at least, Vanessa’s own.

The generic décor felt impersonal, selected by someone who knew the demographic profile of a woman like Vanessa Blake but nothing of her as an individual. The furniture was arranged in a way that prioritized aesthetics over comfort or practicality. Even the books on the shelves seemed chosen from some algorithm of what a young, single woman might read. Bestselling thrillers, self-help books, a few novels that had been made into films.

After finishing her meal, Evie washed her dishes and then walked to the small pantry. She remembered the bottles of wine from the initial tour. She pulled one out, a cabernet sauvignon, and opened it, pouring herself a generous glass.

It was barely afternoon but today called for exceptions. Besides, she was supposedly working night shifts now. Her schedule was inverted.

Glass in hand, she began moving through the apartment, adjusting art on the walls, rearranging furniture, making small changes that would help the space feel more like her own.

In the living room, she paused at the bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines. Her gaze caught on one title on the coffee table. “Reclaiming Your Power After Emotional Abuse.” It was part of Vanessa’s cover story, the girlfriend escaping a controlling relationship, but something about it resonated with Evie in this moment.

She flipped through it. The chapters covered recognizing manipulation, setting boundaries, rebuilding self-trust. She carried it to the bedroom and placed it on her nightstand.

In the bedroom, she rearranged the furniture to mirror the layout of her bedroom at home, pushing the bed against a different wall so that she would wake up with the light falling across her face the way she was accustomed to. She changed the generic beige comforter for the deep blue one she found in the linen closet, swapped out the decorative pillows, rearranged the items on the dresser.

Small changes, but they made a difference. By the time she’d finished her wine and poured a second glass, the apartment felt less like a stage set and more like a space she could inhabit, at least temporarily.

She opened the closet and began sorting through Vanessa’s clothing. Some of it she liked, simple jeans, comfortable sweaters, casual dresses that she might have chosen herself. Other pieces were clearly selected to create the image of a woman who might become an exotic dancer. Shorter skirts, tighter dresses, more revealing tops than Evie wore.

She separated the clothes into piles: things she would wear, things she wouldn’t, things that could be Vanessa’s public wardrobe for her cover identity.

She located large garbage bags in the kitchen and began filling it with items she didn’t want, décor pieces that felt wrong, clothing that seemed too foreign to who she was, the generic art prints that held no meaning.

She would donate these things, she decided. Someone else might find use for them and removing them from the apartment would help her make the space feel more like her own.

Hour later, she’d transformed the apartment into something that felt, if not like home, at least like somewhere she could live. She’d finished half the bottle of wine

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. A group text.

Kimmy: Hey, it’s Kimmy. Just checking in. You seemed a little shaken last night. All good?

A moment later, another text came through.

Mia: Mia here too. We’re at the beach if you want to join.

A lump formed in Evie’s throat. The genuine concern in the messages touched something raw within her. These women hardly knew her, or rather, they knew a version of her that didn’t really exist, and yet they were reaching out, checking on her, including her.

She typed back: Thanks for checking on me. Just tired. Still adjusting to the night schedule. Rain check on the beach? See you tomorrow.

A response came quickly: Absolutely. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be wild.

Evie set down her phone. The connection felt real, even if it was built on a foundation of lies. She wondered again what would happen when this was all over, whether there might be a way to salvage some kind of friendship with Mia and Kimmy once they knew the truth.

By early evening, she’d cleaned the entire apartment, reorganized the spaces to better suit her needs, and made a grocery list of items she wanted to add. She felt more centered now, more in control. The nightmare had receded, though it still lurked at the edges of her consciousness, a reminder of the risks she faced.

She picked up the burner phone, knowing she needed to check in. She typed quickly: Day off. Status green. Preparing for weekend shifts. No contact with targets.

The response came almost immediately: Acknowledged. Maintain cover activities. Next check-in after tomorrow’s shift.

Brief, impersonal, all business. Yet somehow reassuring.

Evie decided to go grocery shopping, needing to get out of the apartment and establish some sense of normal routine. First, she loaded two garbage bags filled with unwanted items into her car and dropped them at a donation center. The middle-aged volunteer who accepted them smiled warmly, telling her that women at the shelter would appreciate the nearly new items, which gave Evie an unexpected sense of satisfaction.

At the grocery store she bought fresh fruits, eggs, coffee, and her preferred brands of yogurt and granola, ingredients for simple meals she could quickly prepare for breakfast.

For her other meals, she’d eat out or order delivery, a decision that would minimize the need for extensive meal prep. Her schedule at Elysium wouldn’t leave much energy for cooking anyway, and the money she was making could easily cover restaurant meals.

The mundane activity of grocery shopping felt oddly grounding. This was something normal people did. This was something Evie Sinclair would do. This was something Vanessa Blake would do. The overlap helped her find her center again.

By the time she returned home and put away her purchases, evening had settled over the city. Evie had a light dinner delivered and settled onto the couch, pulling up one of her favorite true crime documentaries on the TV. The familiar format, with interviews, reenactments, the methodical piecing together of evidence, soothed her.

She found herself analyzing the cases with her usual attention to detail, noting inconsistencies in witness statements, questioning investigative choices. This was familiar territory, the kind of analytical thinking she’d always excelled at. The kind of thinking that had led the FBI to recruit her in the first place.

As the night deepened, she watched episode after episode, losing herself in the puzzles of motive and opportunity, evidence and deduction. It was nearly 2 AM when she finally turned off the TV.

She moved to the window, looking out at the city lights. Miami never truly slept, especially not in the areas surrounding the clubs and bars. Somewhere out there, the Maddox brothers were planning their next moves, conducting their business, perhaps even discussing her, the new dancer who had caught their attention.

Tomorrow, she would see them again. She would return to Elysium, to the persona of Destiny. The thought filled her with a complex mixture of anxiety and something like anticipation.

She thought about Michael, about the likelihood that he would return as he’d promised. She needed a strategy for handling him, for maintaining the balance between engaging his interest and keeping her boundaries intact. She couldn’t afford another experience like last night, couldn’t risk losing herself again in a moment of unexpected pleasure.

She thought about Henry, too, and the other regulars she was beginning to recognize. Each interaction needed to be calibrated. Friendly enough to encourage confidence and information sharing, intimate enough to maintain her cover, but controlled enough to protect her core self.

The mission parameters were clear. Get close to the Maddox brothers, gather intelligence on their operation and their connection to Malcolm Kessler. Everything else was secondary.

She considered starting a journal to process her thoughts, to maintain her grip on her true identity amid the performance of Vanessa Blake. But the risk was too great. If anyone found written evidence of her true purpose, the consequences could be deadly.

Instead, she would have to rely on her own mental discipline, on the compartmentalization that Lexi had described. She would need to build stronger walls between Evie and Vanessa, clearer boundaries between the mission and her responses to it.

She thought of David, of the charges hanging over him, of the freedom she was purchasing for him with this sacrifice. She thought of the victims of the courthouse bombing, of the others who might be harmed if the Maddox brothers and Malcolm Kessler weren’t stopped.

This was bigger than her discomfort, bigger than her guilt, bigger than the blurring lines between her identities. This was about justice, about protection, about preventing further harm.

She thought of Grant and Lexi, the architects of this operation, who had recruited her, trained her, and now supervised her from a careful distance. They had manipulated her into this position, withheld crucial information, yet they were also the only people who truly understood what she was experiencing. They were simultaneously her handlers and her lifelines, the ones who would extract her if everything fell apart.

Lexi’s words in the club bathroom returned to her: “After my first deep cover operation, I spent three days in my apartment trying to remember who I was before.” The admission had revealed a crack in Lexi’s armor, a glimpse of humanity beneath the operational coldness. Perhaps there was more to her handler than she’d initially believed, more common ground than she’d imagined possible.

She thought of Joe, alone in their condo, probably staring at her side of the bed each night before falling asleep. The man who had loved her, who had supported her, who had no idea what she was becoming in this strange new world. If she returned to him changed, when she returned to him changed, would he still recognize the woman he had married? Would he still want her?

As she finally returned to bed, Evie felt more centered than she had since the mission began. The nightmare might return, probably would return, but she would face it. She would face all of it, the challenges and compromises, the moral ambiguities and personal costs.

Because that was who she was. Not just Evelyn Sinclair, devoted wife. Not just Vanessa Blake, exotic dancer. But Evie, the girl who had grown up watching her father serve and protect, who had dreamed of following in his footsteps, who had never forgotten what it meant to stand for something larger than herself.

Tomorrow would bring new tests, new boundaries to navigate. But tonight, at least, she had found her footing again. Tomorrow, she would be ready.