The alarm shrieked at noon, jolting Evie from a dream where she was dancing on a stage that kept tilting precariously, threatening to dump her into a pit of watching eyes. For a disorienting moment, she couldn’t remember where she was or why Joe’s warm body wasn’t beside her. Then reality crashed back. The apartment. The mission. Elysium.

Friday. Her first weekend shift.

She’d managed almost eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, a small victory after Wednesday night’s emotional tailspin and nightmare. Though fragments of that dream still hovered at the edges of her consciousness, the raw panic had subsided.

Evie pushed tangled blonde hair from her face and surveyed the bedroom. Her reorganization efforts from yesterday had transformed the space from FBI designed stage set to somewhere that felt like she might actually live in it.

She swung her legs out of bed and moved to the kitchen, where she prepared coffee. After it brewed, she added cream, then leaned against the counter sipping the coffee, mentally mapping out her day. Kimmy had texted, confirming they’d meet at Crumbs & Coffee before heading to Elysium for their shifts. That gave her a few hours to prepare, to transform herself from Evie Sinclair, or Vanessa Blake into Destiny.

The thought sent a flutter of nervous energy through her body. Tonight wasn’t just another shift. It was her first Friday at Elysium. Prime time. And according to Tanya, both Maddox brothers would be watching her specifically.

Steam fogged the mirror as she started the shower, setting the temperature just shy of scalding. While she waited for the water to heat, she assessed her reflection. Close to a week into this assignment, and already subtle changes had begun to manifest in her appearance. Her posture had shifted, shoulders back, chin slightly higher. Her gaze held a new directness, an assessing quality she’d learned from watching other dancers evaluate potential customers.

Subtle, but noticeable. She wondered if Joe would see these changes when she eventually returned home. If he would recognize the woman she was becoming.

“Stop,” she told her reflection firmly. “Focus on today.”

She stripped off the oversized t-shirt she’d slept in and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water pour over her scalp and down her back. As she reached for the shampoo, she considered the evening ahead. Weekends meant higher stakes, bigger tips, more scrutiny from management. She needed to look perfect, to embody Destiny completely.

After washing her hair, Evie reached for her razor and shaving cream. At home, she’d usually kept things trimmed neatly, the standard bikini line maintenance most women performed. But at Elysium, many dancers opted for complete removal, both for aesthetic reasons and for the practical consideration of wearing increasingly minimal outfits.

She applied shaving cream to her pubic area and began the careful work of removing every trace of hair, stretching skin to avoid nicks or cuts. The task gave her time to think, to mentally prepare for what lay ahead.

Michael would almost certainly be there tonight. He’d promised as much at the end of their Diamond Suite encounter. She vividly remembered her body’s betrayal, the unexpected climax, the confusion and shame that had followed.

She needed a strategy for handling him. Simply avoiding him wasn’t an option. His high spending made him a valuable client, and interactions with him would reinforce her cover identity. But she couldn’t risk another lapse of control, another moment where Destiny’s responses overwhelmed Evie’s boundaries.

Perhaps the answer wasn’t avoidance but preparation. If she anticipated his effect on her, if she acknowledged the physical responses rather than denying them, perhaps she could maintain control. She could use her awareness of their chemistry to her advantage, creating the illusion of intimacy while keeping her emotional distance.

As she rinsed away the last traces of shaving cream, leaving her pussy completely bare, she considered Henry as well. Her first regular customer, reliable and respectful within the boundaries of their transactional relationship. He’d be a safer harbor amid the uncertain waters of a Friday night shift, especially if Michael’s presence became too challenging to navigate.

She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a towel. The bathroom mirror had completely fogged over, obscuring her reflection.

Back in the bedroom, Evie opened her duffel bag and began selecting outfits for the night. The club would be packed, which meant multiple costume changes to create the illusion of newness throughout the evening. She carefully packed the emerald ensemble Loretta had recommended, along with the red sequined two-piece and a silver outfit that sparkled, designed to stand out even in the dim lighting of the club.

For makeup, she selected products that would last through a physically demanding shift. She’d apply it all later, at the club, but organizing it now helped focus her thoughts, settled her nerves.

As she packed, Evie mentally rehearsed conversation topics for regular customers, transitions between stage performances and floor work, strategies for maximizing her earnings. The practical considerations created distance from the moral complexities, from the increasingly blurred lines between her true self and her cover identity.

She checked her phone. Almost time to meet Kimmy and Mia.

Evie dressed in comfortable clothes for the drive, loose jeans, a simple blouse, flat shoes that gave her feet a break before hours in stilettos. She applied minimal makeup, just enough to look put together but not so much that it would interfere with her stage preparation at the club.

With one final look around the apartment, she grabbed her duffel bag and keys. In the car, she sent a quick text to Kimmy confirming she was on her way, then navigated through Miami’s traffic toward Crumbs & Coffee.

The copper bell jingled as she pushed through the door. She spotted Kimmy and Mia seated at the same table as Wednesday.

“She lives!” Kimmy called out, waving enthusiastically. “We were starting to wonder if you’d sleep through your shift.”

“Tempting,” Evie replied with a smile, sliding into the empty chair. “But I figured you’d come drag me out of bed.”

“Damn right we would,” Mia said, pushing a steaming mug toward her. “Latte, two sugars. And try the almond croissants. They’re insane.”

The easy camaraderie settled something inside Evie. Despite the inherent deception of her situation, these moments felt genuine. Kimmy and Mia might know her as Vanessa Blake rather than Evelyn Sinclair, but their friendship, at least, wasn’t entirely fabricated.

“So,” Kimmy said, leaning forward, “ready for your first weekend at Elysium? It’s a whole different beast compared to weeknights.”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” Evie replied, selecting a croissant from the plate. “What exactly should I expect?”

Mia took a sip of her coffee. “Chaos, but profitable chaos. The weekend crowd is younger, rowdier, and more willing to spend.”

“The trick is time management,” Kimmy added. “On weeknights, you might spend half an hour chatting with a customer before they buy a dance. On weekends, you’ve got maybe five, ten minutes to close the deal before moving on.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Evie said.

“It is,” Mia agreed. “But you’ll make more in one Friday night than you did on your other shifts combined if you work it right.”

Evie broke off a piece of her croissant. “Any specific strategy?”

“Well,” Kimmy began, “normally I’d say focus on the bachelor parties, flirt with the birthday boys, stick to high-spending groups. But your situation is… different.”

“Different how?” Evie asked, though she already knew the answer.

“The Maddox effect,” Kimmy said simply.

“The what?”

Kimmy leaned forward, lowering her voice slightly despite the ambient noise of the café. “When a dancer catches the brothers’ attention, everything changes. Suddenly you’ve got the best rotation on stage, the most lucrative clients get directed your way, the security team watches your back more closely.”

“It’s like being anointed,” Mia added. “Instant status elevation.”

“And you,” Kimmy continued, pointing at Evie with her fork, “ managed to grab their interest in record time. Called to Victor’s office on your first night, Damien asking about your schedule, prime weekend shifts after just three days. That never happens.”

“Lucky, I guess,” Evie said, trying to maintain casual interest despite the surge of adrenaline at this confirmation of her mission’s progress.

“‘Lucky’ is an understatement,” Mia replied. “The last girl who caught their attention that quickly was Selena, and that took at least a month.”

Evie nearly choked on her coffee. Lexi had been fast-tracked by the Maddox brothers? That certainly hadn’t been mentioned in any of their briefings or debriefs. She filed the information away to consider later.

“So with the brothers watching me,” Evie said carefully, “what should my approach be tonight?”

“Be exceptional,” Kimmy said simply. “They don’t put up with average. If they’ve decided you’re worth noticing, you need to prove them right.”

“And be careful,” Mia added, her expression growing serious. “Especially around Damien.”

“You mentioned Wednesday that Damien can be volatile,” Evie said, recalling their earlier conversation. “Is there something I should watch for?”

Mia glanced around, then leaned closer. “About six months ago, this customer got handsy with one of the dancers. I mean, really crossed the line, grabbed her breast hard enough to bruise. Word got to Damien.”

“What happened?” Evie asked, though something in Mia’s expression suggested she already knew the answer wouldn’t be pleasant.

“Damien took the guy to the parking lot,” Mia continued. “Broke three of his fingers. One at a time. Made him count each snap. Then had Marcus drive him to the emergency room with the warning that if he ever showed his face at Elysium again, it would be his neck instead of his fingers.”

Evie’s stomach turned. The briefing materials had referenced Damien’s violent tendencies, but hearing this firsthand account made the threat suddenly more immediate, more real.

“The thing is,” Kimmy added, “the punishment didn’t fit the crime. Yes, the customer was wrong, but what Damien did was… excessive. Like he enjoyed it.”

“And everyone just accepts this?” Evie asked.

“The dancers do,” Mia shrugged. “It’s twisted, but there’s a kind of security in knowing someone like Damien will destroy anyone who hurts you. Makes you feel protected.”

Evie took a slow sip of her coffee, processing this information.

Kimmy redirected the conversation. “Word is something big is happening soon,” she said. “Important visitors coming to the club. VIPs beyond the usual crowd.”

Evie’s pulse quickened. “Any idea who?”

“No names,” Kimmy replied. “Victor’s been in meetings all week, and there’s been a lot of renovations to the VIP section. New security protocols too.”

“When is this supposed to happen?” Evie asked, trying to keep her tone casually curious rather than intensely interested.

“Not sure of the exact date,” Kimmy said. “But soon. Within the next couple weeks, from what I’ve overheard. Marcus has been coordinating with some outside security team, which never happens. The Maddox brothers usually keep everything in-house.”

Kessler. It had to be. The briefing materials had mentioned the Maddox brothers’ connection to Malcolm Kessler, the relationship Grant and Lexi were most interested in uncovering. If Kessler was planning to visit Elysium, it would explain the heightened security, the renovations, the meetings.

Evie made a mental note to include this information in her check-in tonight. This was precisely the kind of intelligence gathering that justified her deep cover role, the first real lead that might advance the larger investigation.

They spent the rest of their time swapping stories about terrible first dates and dream vacations, the easy flow of conversation making Evie forget momentarily about the night that lay ahead.

“Anyway,” Mia said, checking her watch, “we should probably start heading over.”

“Right,” Evie nodded, finishing the last of her latte. “By the way, thanks for the heads-up about tonight. Any other advice before we dive in?”

“Pace yourself,” Kimmy replied, gathering her purse. “Take breaks when you can, stay hydrated, and don’t let the party atmosphere tempt you into drinking too much.”

“And watch each other’s backs,” Mia added. “Weekend crowds can get rowdy. If you see anyone giving us trouble, we’ll do the same for you.”

The simple offer of mutual protection touched Evie unexpectedly. In the high-stakes world of Elysium, where competition for clients and tips created natural rivalries, Kimmy and Mia were offering genuine alliance.

They paid for their coffees and pastries, then walked out to the parking lot together.

“Follow us?” Mia suggested. “We know a back route that avoids the worst traffic.”

“Perfect,” Evie replied, fishing her keys from her purse.

In her car, Evie watched as Kimmy and Mia pulled out of the parking lot, waiting for them to signal before following. The conversation replayed in her mind, particularly the information about “important visitors” coming to the club. If it was indeed Kessler, this could be the breakthrough the FBI had been waiting for.

As she followed Mia’s car through a series of side streets that bypassed the main thoroughfares, Evie mentally shifted gears, transitioning from the woman who enjoyed coffee with friends to the dancer preparing for a night of performance. By the time they reached Elysium’s parking lot, Destiny had begun to emerge, pushing Evie Sinclair deeper beneath the surface.

The employee entrance door stood like a portal between worlds. Once she stepped through, she would need to be completely immersed in her cover identity. Observant, seductive, comfortable in the exchange of fantasy for cash. Vanessa Blake, stage name Destiny, would take center stage, while Evelyn Sinclair, FBI informant and Joseph Sinclair’s wife, would need to recede entirely.

Kimmy and Mia waited for her at the entrance, their expressions already shifting subtly as they too prepared to assume their professional personas.

“Ready?” Kimmy asked, her hand on the door.

Evie took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and nodded. “Let’s do this.”

—

The moment they stepped through the employee entrance, the energy was palpable. The dressing room pulsed with a frenetic intensity Evie hadn’t experienced on her previous shifts. The space that had seemed somewhat spacious on weeknights was now a chaotic hive of bodies in constant motion.

“Welcome to weekend Elysium,” Kimmy shouted over the noise, navigating toward their stations.

At least sixty dancers occupied the room, double the number Evie had seen on her previous shifts. Bodies in various states of undress moved between lockers and makeup stations.

“Jesus,” Evie muttered, clutching her duffel bag closer as they wove through the crowd.

“Some of these faces only work Friday and Saturday,” Mia explained, gesturing toward a group of women Evie hadn’t seen before. “Weekend specialists. They make enough in two nights to live comfortably the rest of the week.”

Evie glanced at the unfamiliar dancers. They carried themselves differently than the weekday crew, more polished, more confident. One woman in particular caught her attention, a statuesque redhead who looked like she’d stepped off a runway.

“That’s Siren,” Kimmy whispered, noting Evie’s gaze. “She’s been here four years, flies in from New York every weekend because the money’s that good.”

“And those three,” Mia added, nodding toward a trio of dancers comparing outfits near the far wall, “they only work the VIP section. The blonde is Alice, the brunettes are Wendy and Doe.”

Evie absorbed this information as they reached their stations. The hierarchy was more complex than she’d initially understood. The club operated as its own ecosystem with clearly defined strata, from novices working weekday shifts to the elite weekend specialists who commanded the highest rates and most exclusive access.

“Don’t be intimidated,” Kimmy said, reading Evie’s expression. “They were all new once too.”

“Besides,” Mia added with a smirk, “none of them had the Maddox brothers asking about their schedule after a few days.”

As they began unpacking, Loretta swept through the room, clipboard in hand.

“Ladies!” she called out. “Half an hour before lineup!”

She paused when she reached their station, her eyes settling on Evie. “Destiny! First Friday night.” She smiled warmly. “Emerald outfit for your first set, right?”

“That was your recommendation,” Evie reminded her.

“And I’m never wrong about these things,” Loretta winked. “Good luck out there. It’s a jungle tonight but you’ll do fine.”

As Loretta continued through the dressing room, Evie turned to her duffel bag, extracting her emerald ensemble. The outfit was chosen to stand out amid the sea of predictable red and black outfits that dominated the club.

Next came the makeup. On her previous shifts, she’d opted for a more natural look, but tonight required something bolder, more dramatic. Kimmy and Mia worked alongside her, their movements quick and practiced.

“The key to Friday makeup,” Kimmy advised, “is durability. You won’t have time for touch-ups until much later.”

Evie nodded, switching to the long-wear makeup she’d packed specifically for tonight. She built layers of color and definition, transforming her face into a more striking, more defined version of itself.

As her face transformed, she felt Destiny emerging more strongly within her. The sensual confidence, the easy charm, the seduction, all aspects of a persona that had once felt foreign but was now sliding into place with disturbing ease.

“Damn,” Mia said, glancing over at Evie’s nearly finished makeup. “You clean up good, new girl.”

“The transformation speaks for itself,” a voice said from behind them.

Evie turned to find the redhead, Siren, standing there, her own makeup already flawless, her body draped in a silver robe. Up close, she was even more intimidating.

“First weekend?” Siren asked, her gaze traveling over Evie with professional appraisal rather than personal interest.

“Yes,” Evie replied, meeting her eyes directly. “First Friday.”

“You were on Sunday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, right?” Siren asked. “Word travels. You’ve got the brothers watching already.”

There was neither accusation nor friendliness in her tone, just matter-of-fact acknowledgment of Evie’s unusual trajectory.

“Just lucky, I guess,” Evie said with a shrug, the words becoming something of a mantra.

“Luck has nothing to do with this business,” Siren replied. “But talent does. Don’t waste the opportunity.” With that advice, she moved away, disappearing into the crowded dressing room.

“That was practically a blessing from the high priestess,” Kimmy murmured. “Siren doesn’t waste words on newbies.”

Evie absorbed this information as she put the finishing touches on her makeup. The interaction hadn’t felt particularly warm, but she understood it represented some form of acknowledgment from the club’s established elite.

“Ladies!” Loretta called out again, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Tanya wants everyone in the meeting room, no exceptions.”

Evie stood, stepping out of her street clothes and into the emerald outfit. She slipped her feet into the high heels. The physical transformation was complete. Evelyn Sinclair had disappeared entirely, replaced by Destiny.

“How do I look?” she asked, turning to Kimmy and Mia.

“Like money,” Kimmy replied with a grin. “Pure money.”

The dancers filed out of the dressing room, moving down a hallway toward a room Evie hadn’t visited before. As they entered, she found herself in what appeared to be a conference room, a large table surrounded by chairs, a whiteboard on one wall, a projector screen on another. It looked strangely corporate in the otherwise sensual environment of the club.

Tanya stood at the head of the table. As the dancers filed in, filling the chairs and lining the walls, Tanya’s gaze swept over them.

“Ladies,” she began once everyone had settled, “standard weekend protocols are in effect. The club is already at sixty percent capacity, and we expect to hit our maximum by nine PM. The bar is fully stocked, security is doubled, and we have three bachelor parties plus a corporate event from Goldman Sachs in the VIP section.”

She paused, looking down at her clipboard. “Rotation schedule is posted by the stage. If you’re not on it, come see me. No switching without approval.”

Tanya looked up again. “Weekend rules. No disappearing to the bathroom for extended periods. No fighting with other dancers over territory. Don’t get wasted. This isn’t amateur hour, ladies. We’re professionals.”

The assembled dancers nodded, the veterans looking bored by the familiar speech.

“Most importantly,” Tanya continued, “both Maddox brothers will be here tonight, along with several important associates. The VIP section is off limits unless you’re specifically invited up. Are we clear?”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.

“Good. Now, specific assignments.” Tanya began reading from her clipboard, assigning dancers to different areas of the club, main floor, satellite stages, champagne room duty. When she reached Evie’s name, she paused.

“Destiny, you’re third in the main stage rotation, then switching to floor work until your second set. After that, stay on the main floor but keep yourself visible from the VIP section. Understood?”

The instruction was clear. Make herself available for the Maddox brothers’ observation.

“Understood,” Evie replied.

“That’s all,” Tanya concluded. “Remember, this is why you’re here. Friday nights pay your rent, your car payment, your vacations. Make them count.”

As the dancers began filing out, Tanya called out, “Destiny, a word.”

Evie waited while the room emptied, Kimmy and Mia shooting her questioning glances as they left. When they were alone, Tanya approached.

“You’ve been impressive so far,” she said. “Your numbers are exceptional for someone with no experience. But tonight is different.”

“Different how?” Evie asked.

“Tonight, you’re not just being evaluated on earnings. You’re being evaluated on potential.” Tanya’s gaze was direct, unblinking. “Victor specifically mentioned wanting to see how you handle the weekend crowd. Damien asked about your experience.”

Evie’s pulse quickened. “What did you tell him?”

“The truth. That you haven’t worked anywhere else.” Tanya hesitated, then added, “But I also told him you have natural instincts for this business.”

“And what did he say to that?”

A faint smile crossed Tanya’s lips. “He said he’d judge for himself tonight.”

Of course. It was a test, an evaluation, an opportunity.

“One more thing,” Tanya said. “A client asked about you specifically. Michael Laurent. He’s reserved a Diamond Suite for half an hour tonight.”

Evie’s heartbeat sped up at the mention of Michael’s name. The memory of their previous encounter, of her body’s betraying response, remained uncomfortably vivid.

“Should I accept?” she asked, careful to keep her tone neutral.

“That’s your decision,” Tanya replied, studying her face. “He’s a high-value client. Spends liberally, maintains appropriate boundaries, never causes trouble. But if you’re uncomfortable for any reason…”

“No,” Evie said quickly. “It’s fine. I’ll handle it.”

Tanya nodded, satisfied. “Good. His reservation is for midnight. If all goes well with your earlier sets, you may be invited upstairs before then. If that happens, we’ll reassign Michael to someone else.”

“And if I’m not invited upstairs?”

“Then you keep your Diamond Suite appointment and continue making excellent money on the main floor,” Tanya said simply. “Either way, you win.”

She checked her watch. “It’s time. The floor is waiting.”

As they walked together toward the main club, Tanya added one final piece of advice. “The Maddox brothers value confidence, intelligence, and discretion above all else. They can find beautiful women anywhere. What sets their favorites apart is something less tangible.”

“And what’s that?” Evie asked.

“Authenticity,” Tanya replied, ironic given Evie’s complete deception. “Even in a business built on fantasy, they can spot a genuine connection. Remember that.”

They reached the doors leading to the main floor. The music was louder here, the bass throbbing through the walls like a collective heartbeat. Evie could feel the energy beyond those doors. Hundreds of people, flowing alcohol, pulsing lights, charged anticipation.

“Ready?” Tanya asked.

Evie took a deep breath. She wasn’t just playing a part anymore. For the next several hours, she would be Destiny completely. Seductive, confident, in control.

“I’m ready,” she said.

Tanya nodded, pushing the door open to reveal the transformed main floor of Elysium. What had been relatively subdued on weeknights was now a sensory assault. Every table was occupied, the bar crowded with customers, the main stage spotlights cutting through artificial fog as a dancer in red performed for an appreciative crowd.

“Good luck out there,” Tanya said.

With one final steadying breath, Evie stepped through the doorway and onto the main floor, the door swinging shut behind her. The transformation was complete. Evelyn Sinclair was gone. Destiny had arrived.

—

Evie scanned the room. The main stage featured a dancer she hadn’t seen before, a flexible brunette whose gymnastic abilities on the pole drew enthusiastic responses from the crowd clustered around her.

The VIP section on the second floor was visible from her position but she couldn’t make out individual faces from this distance. The velvet rope and security presence beside the stairs marked it as forbidden territory, at least for now.

Evie moved into the room with confidence, her walk a blend of sensuality and purpose. Within moments, she felt eyes tracking her movement.

A group near the bar caught her attention first. Five men in business attire that suggested finance or law, their demeanor that particular blend of entitlement and restrained excitement that often translated to generous tipping. She approached, making eye contact with the one who seemed to be the leader, a salt-and-pepper haired man in his forties who wore an expensive watch.

“Room for one more?” she asked, her voice pitched to carry over the music without shouting.

The man’s face brightened immediately, his gaze moving appreciatively over her body before returning to her face. “Absolutely,” he replied, gesturing to an empty chair. “I’m Alan. These are my colleagues from Morgan Stanley.”

Introductions flowed smoothly as Evie settled into the offered seat. Fifteen minutes of charm followed, just enough personal attention to make each man feel special, just enough mystery to maintain their interest, compliments and touches on forearms or shoulders. By the time she excused herself, she’d secured two private dances for later and collected nearly two hundred dollars in tips simply for conversation.

As she moved to her next target, Evie caught sight of Kimmy across the floor, already leading a client toward the Sapphire Rooms. Their eyes met briefly, Kimmy offering a quick wink of encouragement before disappearing down the hallway.

The next hour passed in similar fashion, approaching tables, engaging briefly but intensely, creating the illusion of connection before moving on to maximize her coverage of the floor.

Evie was returning from her second Sapphire Room dance when she spotted him, a man sitting alone at a corner table, watching the main stage. Unlike most solo customers who projected either desperation or predatory intent, he radiated calm self-assurance. His tailored suit and understated accessories suggested money without flashiness.

Something about his demeanor, the way he observed rather than gawked, his contained presence amid the chaos, registered as an opportunity. Evie adjusted her trajectory, approaching his table with unhurried confidence.

“You look like you could use some company,” she said, stopping beside him.

He turned, surprise briefly crossing his features before he composed himself. Up close, he was more striking than she’d initially assessed, early forties perhaps, with intelligent eyes and the kind of face that aged well, lines etched by experience.

He looked European. His accent confirmed it, German, but softened by many years in America. “I wouldn’t object,” he replied, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. “Though I fear I’m poor company tonight. Work occupies too much of my mental space.”

“Sounds serious,” Evie said, settling into the offered seat. “I’m Destiny, by the way.”

“Simon,” he replied with a slight nod. “And it’s not serious so much as persistent. The mind refuses to shut off sometimes.”

“What kind of work captures your attention so completely?” Evie asked.

“Investment management,” Simon said. “The polite term for gambling with other people’s money and hoping the markets align with one’s analysis.”

“That’s not the usual pitch I hear from finance guys.”

“I imagine not,” he replied, a hint of a smile warming his features. “Most come here specifically to escape reality, not drag it along as unwanted baggage.”

“And you?” Evie tilted her head. “What brought you here tonight if not escape?”

Simon considered the question, his gaze thoughtful. “Perspective, perhaps. A reminder that the world continues spinning outside markets and projections.” He paused, his eyes meeting hers directly. “And beauty. There’s always value in beauty.”

The compliment, delivered without leeriness or expectation, felt unexpectedly genuine.

“You’re new here,” Simon observed after they’d been talking for several minutes. “Recently hired?”

“Is it that obvious?” Evie asked.

“Not in your manner,” he assured her. “You carry yourself with remarkable confidence. But I’m something of a regular, and new faces stand out, especially ones as striking as yours.”

“Thank you,” she replied, allowing Destiny’s smile to bloom across her face. “And yes, this is my first Friday. Still learning the ropes.”

“Well, you seem to be doing exceptionally well,” Simon said, gesturing subtly toward the drink she’d barely touched. “Most new dancers would have drained that glass by now, seeking liquid courage.”

His perception was unnervingly accurate. “I prefer to keep my wits about me,” Evie admitted.

“A wise approach in any profession,” Simon agreed. His eyes traveled to the stage, where the current dancer was finishing her set, then back to Evie. “When do you perform tonight?”

“I’m third in the rotation,” she replied. “About thirty minutes from now.”

Simon nodded thoughtfully. “Then perhaps we might enjoy some more private conversation first? A Diamond Suite?”

Unlike her previous clients who requested private dances with barely concealed eagerness, Simon’s manner suggested genuine interest in continued conversation as much as physical proximity.

“I’d like that,” Evie replied.

Simon moved with easy confidence, nodding to security staff and bartenders with the familiarity of a regular patron. Yet unlike many of the other customers who treated the club as their personal playground, his demeanor retained a certain respectful distance.

Inside the Diamond Suite, Simon settled onto the circular couch rather than the bed, another subtle indicator that separated him from clients whose intentions skewed more explicitly sexual. He observed Evie without the hunger she’d grown accustomed to seeing, his appreciation controlled.

“May I ask a somewhat offensive question?” he said as Evie adjusted the lighting and music via the wall panel.

“That depends entirely on the question,” she replied, turning to face him.

“Why dancing? You strike me as someone with multiple options available to them.”

No one had asked her this before, not directly, not with genuine curiosity rather than as a pretext for more personal probing. For a moment, Evie hesitated.

“Financial independence,” she said finally. “Freedom to make my own choices after being controlled for too long.” The statement carried uncomfortable parallels to her actual circumstances, she realized, serving a mission she hadn’t fully consented to, manipulated by handlers who concealed crucial information.

Simon nodded, seeming to find the answer satisfactory. “Freedom is worth its price,” he said. “Though I imagine this environment exacts its own costs.”

The music shifted to a slower, bass-heavy track, giving Evie the cue to begin her dance. She moved now, the motions becoming more natural with each shift. As she danced, removing first her top and then the bottoms, Simon watched with appreciation.

When she straddled his lap, now wearing only a G-string, his hands rested lightly on her waist, respectful yet connected. Their conversation continued even as she moved against him, discussing everything from books to travel to the peculiarities of Miami culture.

By the time their four songs ended, Evie felt something unusual, genuine regret that the interaction was concluding. Simon had been a refreshing change from the typical clientele, his conversation stimulating on multiple levels.

“I’ve enjoyed this tremendously,” Simon said as they prepared to return to the main floor. He handed her several hundred-dollar bills. “Perhaps we might continue another time? I’m typically here on Friday nights.”

“I’d like that,” Evie replied, accepting the money with a smile. “I’m scheduled for Fridays and Saturdays now.”

“Then I shall look forward to next week,” Simon said. “Good luck with your performance tonight.”

They parted at the doorway, Simon returning to his table while Evie scanned the room for her next opportunity. Her gaze landed on a familiar face. Henry was seated with two other men at a table near the main stage. Her steps quickened as she approached, the comfort of a known quantity after the unexpected connection with Simon.

“Destiny!” Henry called out, his expression brightening as she approached. “I was hoping to see you tonight.”

“Henry,” she replied, genuine warmth infusing her tone. “I didn’t know you were a weekend regular too.”

“Special occasion,” Henry said, gesturing to his companions. “My friends insisted we upgrade from our usual Tuesday outings. Brad and Greg, meet Destiny.”

The introductions flowed easily, Henry’s friends receiving her with the slightly awed respect of men who’d clearly heard about her from their colleague. The conversation meandered comfortably, Henry occasionally touching her arm or shoulder with the familiarity of an established client.

“You’re on stage soon, right?” Henry asked after several minutes of conversation.

“About five minutes,” Evie confirmed, glancing toward the stage where another dancer was finishing her set.

“We’ll have the best view in the house,” Henry assured her, indicating their proximity to the stage. “And afterward, perhaps a private dance?”

“I’d like that,” Evie replied. She excused herself to prepare for her performance, promising to return after her set.

As she made her way toward the staging area, Evie scanned the VIP section carefully. Though she still couldn’t make out individual faces clearly, she knew the Maddox brothers were up there, watching. The knowledge sent a jolt of nervous energy through her body. This performance mattered beyond the immediate financial reward. It was a crucial step in her mission’s progress.

Backstage, she took a moment to check her appearance. The emerald outfit gleamed under the lights, her skin already flushed with a sheen of perspiration that only enhanced her glow. Her makeup had held up well despite the heat and activity.

“Next up on our main stage, the sensation you’ve all been waiting for… Give it up for Destiny!”

Evie stepped onto the stage as the first notes of her selected song pulsed through the speakers. The spotlight hit her, momentarily blinding in its intensity. When her vision adjusted, she could see the crowd had grown even larger during her private time with Simon.

She began to move, finding the rhythm instantaneously now, her body responding to the music. The training with Lexi, the practice in her apartment, the previous performances, all had combined to create a certain muscle memory that allowed her to dance without conscious thought, freeing her mind to assess the crowd’s response, to make movements for maximum effect.

When she removed her top, the crowd’s response was immediate and enthusiastic. Bills appeared in outstretched hands around the stage. Evie moved between them, accepting each offering with a smile or touch.

Despite herself, Evie’s eyes kept drifting toward the VIP section. From her elevated position on stage, she could now make out a few more details, including two men seated at the central table, their posture suggesting authority even at this distance. The Maddox brothers, watching her performance with undivided attention.

The realization sent a surge of adrenaline through her body. She channeled it into her dance, her movements becoming more fluid, more confident, more seductive. When she removed her bottoms, now clad only in the small G-string, the crowd’s energy surged again, the stage suddenly surrounded by hands offering bills of increasing denominations.

For the final minute of her song, Evie danced completely naked, having removed the G-string. Her completely bare pussy, freshly shaved that morning, gleamed under the spotlights. The vulnerability of complete nudity had transformed into a strange power. She controlled this moment, commanded the attention of everyone in the room, perhaps including the powerful men in the VIP section whose interest determined her mission’s success.

When the music ended, the applause and shouts echoed through the club, drowning out the DJ’s closing announcement. Evie collected her scattered clothing and the substantial pile of bills littering the stage before making her exit.

When she came back to the floor, she had barely taken three steps when the first man approached, the hunger in his eyes unmistakable.

“Private dance?” he asked, already reaching for his wallet.

“Of course,” Evie replied with Destiny’s smile.

What followed was a blur of activity, one private dance after another, sometimes barely time to redress between clients. The Sapphire Rooms became a revolving door, men eagerly paying for three songs, then five, occasionally requesting extensions that Evie granted or denied based on assessment of their spending potential and behavior.

She danced for businessmen and trust fund kids, for a bachelor whose friends had pooled their money to buy him the experience, for a nervous young man who could barely look her in the eyes despite having requested the dance. Each required different personas, different approaches. Sympathetic listener, unattainable fantasy, confidante, temptress.

Throughout it all, Evie maintained her awareness of the larger mission, her eyes repeatedly drawn to the VIP section whenever she returned to the main floor.

When she finally managed to return to Henry’s table, he greeted her with undisguised enthusiasm.

“That was incredible,” he said, rising to meet her. “You were easily the best performer of the night.”

“You’re biased,” Evie laughed, genuinely pleased by his evident admiration.

“Proudly,” Henry admitted. “My friends haven’t stopped talking about you.” He lowered his voice slightly. “Is that private dance still an option?”

“For you? Always,” Evie replied.

Their time in the Sapphire Room felt comfortable now. Henry’s hands knew where she permitted them to go, his conversation flowing easily between financial market discussions and gentle flirtation. He respected her boundaries while still enjoying the fantasy she offered, the ideal regular client who would return week after week, providing consistent income and, potentially, useful information.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Henry admitted during their third song. “Since last time.”

“Have you?” Evie asked, allowing a teasing note to enter her voice as she moved against him.

“You’re not easy to forget,” he replied, his hands tightening slightly on her waist. “I’d like to see you every week.”

“I’d like that,” she replied, another phrase she used over and over again. Henry’s straightforward approach and respectful manner made him an easy client to work with.

By the time they returned to the main floor, Evie had secured what amounted to a weekly appointment with Henry, a foundation of financial stability that would support her cover while she pursued the riskier elements of her mission.

The night continued at breakneck pace, a whirlwind of dances, drinks, conversations, and performances. Evie’s second stage appearance was received with even more enthusiasm than the first.

Throughout the evening, she kept scanning for Michael, expecting to see him at any moment, her body tensing involuntarily at the thought of their Diamond Suite appointment scheduled for midnight. Yet he remained absent from the main floor, perhaps already hidden in the VIP section, or simply timing his arrival to coincide with their scheduled meeting.

At 11:50 PM, Evie excused herself from a group of tech entrepreneurs whose conversation about cryptocurrency had begun to drag. She made her way toward the dressing room, needing a moment to collect herself before meeting Michael.

The dressing room was quieter now, many of the dancers either on stage, working the floor, or in one of the rooms. Evie found her station and collapsed into the chair, allowing herself the luxury of a deep breath after hours of constant performance.

She pulled out her earnings, counting quickly through the accumulated bills. The total was staggering. Just over five thousand dollars already, with the potential for considerably more before the night ended. At this rate, a Friday and Saturday shift combined might yield over fifteen thousand in a single weekend.

The financial reality of her situation hit her again. In less than a week of dancing, she’d earned more than three or four months of retail work. The money wasn’t the point of her mission, but it represented a path to financial freedom she’d never imagined possible. The mortgage that felt like an endless tunnel could be paid off in months rather than decades.

If Joe would still want that shared life when she returned.

The thought intruded from nowhere, tightening her chest. Would he understand when she finally explained everything? Would he recognize the woman who returned to him, changed by experiences he couldn’t imagine?

“Focus,” she muttered to herself, pushing the troubling thoughts aside. She needed to prepare for Michael, to armor herself against the unexpected responses her body had betrayed during their last encounter.

Evie reached for her makeup bag, touching up her lipstick, adding a fresh coat of mascara. She switched from the emerald G-string to a black one. A quick spritz of perfume on her wrists and neck, a final check in the mirror, and her transformation was renewed.

She glanced at her phone: 11:58 PM. Time to meet Michael.

As she rose to leave, Evie caught sight of Kimmy entering the dressing room. Her friend’s expression brightened when she spotted her.

“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere,” Kimmy said, approaching quickly. “You’re crushing it out there. Everyone’s talking about your stage performance.”

“Thanks,” Evie replied, genuine pleasure warming her chest at the praise. “It’s been intense.”

“Weekend shifts always are,” Kimmy agreed. “But worth it, right? I saw you working the floor all night. You must be rolling in it.”

“About five thousand so far,” Evie admitted.

Kimmy whistled. “Damn, girl. That’s a lot even for a Friday.”

Before Evie could reply, Loretta appeared at the dressing room entrance.

“Destiny?” she called. “Your Diamond Suite appointment is waiting.”

“I should go,” she told Kimmy. “We’ll catch up later?”

“Definitely,” Kimmy replied. “Good luck with your VIP. Dish all the details later.”

As Evie moved toward the door, Loretta gave her a quick once over. “You look incredible, sugar,” she said, adjusting a strand of Evie’s hair. “Deep breath. Shoulders back. Remember who’s in charge.”

The gentle encouragement steadied Evie. She nodded, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. Destiny was in control, even if Evie occasionally faltered. Destiny knew exactly what she was doing, even when Evie grappled with conflicting emotions. Destiny was confident, powerful, unafraid of her own sexuality or its effect on others.

“I’m ready,” she said.

Loretta nodded approvingly. “Diamond Suite Three. He’s already waiting.”

Evie stepped out of the dressing room, leaving behind Evie Sinclair’s doubts and hesitations. Her heels clicked against the floor as she moved purposefully toward the Diamond Suites, each step bringing her closer to Michael and the dangerous chemistry that had electrified their last encounter.

This time, she promised herself, she would maintain control. This time, she would not surrender to unexpected pleasure. This time, she would keep the line between performance and authentic response clearly defined.

She paused outside Diamond Suite Three, taking one final steadying breath before pushing open the door.

Michael turned at the sound of the door opening, his eyes finding hers instantly. A smile curved his lips, confident yet somehow genuinely pleased rather than smug.

“Destiny,” he said. “I was beginning to think you might not come.”

Evie closed the door behind her, sealing them into their private space. “I always keep my appointments,” she replied, letting Destiny’s confidence carry her forward. “Especially the interesting ones.”

“You’ve made quite an impression tonight,” he said. “The entire club can’t stop watching you.”

Evie moved deeper into the room. “It’s Friday night. Everyone’s watching everyone.”

Michael smiled, the expression transforming his features from merely handsome to something that made her heart race. “False modesty doesn’t suit you, Destiny.”

The use of her stage name reminded her of the role she was playing, the boundaries she needed to maintain. Yet there was something about the way he said it, not as a fantasy character but as an acknowledged performance, that felt unexpectedly intimate.

“I’m glad you came back,” Evie said, adjusting the lighting via the wall panel to a warm amber glow. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“After our last encounter?” His eyebrow rose slightly. “How could I not?”

Evie’s cheeks flushed at the reference to what had happened between them, her unexpected, unplanned release against him. “That was…” She paused, uncertain how to categorize it within the confines of her role.

“Exceptional,” Michael supplied, moving toward the circular bed that dominated the space. He sat on its edge, posture relaxed but attentive. “And refreshingly honest in a place built on illusion.”

Evie selected a song from the room’s sound system, something with a slow, hypnotic beat that would allow for conversation alongside movement. “Is that why you’re here? For more honesty?”

“Perhaps,” Michael replied, watching as she began to move to the music. “Or perhaps I’m simply drawn to the genuine article amid careful fabrications.”

The comment hit uncomfortably close to her actual circumstances. Evie channeled her unease into movement, her dance becoming both distraction and shield. “You speak as if you’re looking for truth in a strip club.”

“Truth exists everywhere,” Michael said, his eyes never leaving her. “Even in unexpected places. Especially there, sometimes.”

Evie approached him, her hips swaying in time with the music. “Most men come here to escape truth, not find it.”

“I’m not most men.”

No, he certainly wasn’t. There was something different about Michael, something she couldn’t quite place.

As she moved between his knees, his hands came to rest lightly on her waist, warm through the thin fabric of her outfit.

“You’ve been busy tonight,” Michael observed, his thumbs tracing small circles just above her hip bones.

Evie arched an eyebrow. “Keeping tabs on me?”

“Observing,” he corrected, his hands guiding her into a slow rotation so that her back faced him. “It’s a useful skill in this environment.”

His fingers found the clasps of her top, unfastening them without requesting permission, not presumptuous but confident in the established boundaries of their previous encounter. The fabric slipped away, leaving her breasts exposed as she turned back to face him.

“You seem to have made an impression on more important observers than just me,” Michael continued, his hands returning to her waist as she straddled his lap.

“Important observers?” Evie prompted, beginning the slow, deliberate movements they’d established in their previous dance.

Michael smiled. “The Maddox brothers have been watching you all night. Particularly during your stage performances.”

This was potentially valuable information, confirmation that her mission was advancing, but she couldn’t appear too interested without risking suspicion.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, affecting unconcern even as her heart rate accelerated. “I can’t see much from the stage with the lights.”

“Trust me,” Michael replied, his hands sliding up her sides to cup her breasts. His thumbs brushed over her nipples with just enough pressure to make her gasp. “When men like that notice you, it represents both opportunity and danger.”

“You sound like you know them.”

Michael’s expression revealed nothing. “I know them. As does anyone who spends time in certain circles in Miami.”

His deliberate vagueness was frustrating, yet she couldn’t push too hard without revealing her own agenda. Instead, she focused on her dance, removing her G-string and settling back onto his lap completely naked.

“And what circles are those?” she asked, grinding against him.

Michael’s hands moved to her ass, guiding her movements against him. “The interesting ones,” he replied. “The ones where real decisions get made.”

Evie leaned forward, her breasts brushing against his chest as she brought her lips close to his ear. “And you’re part of these circles?”

“Let’s just say I move between worlds,” he murmured, his breath warm against her neck. “Much like you seem to be doing.”

The comment sent an icy spike of alarm through her even as her body continued responding to his touch. Did he know something about her true identity? Or was it a reference to her rapid advancement at the club?

Michael must have sensed her tension. His hands gentled on her skin, one moving up to brush her hair back from her face. “You’re not what you appear to be, Destiny. Or perhaps you’re more than you appear to be. That interests me.”

“Everyone has layers,” Evie replied carefully, rolling her hips against him to distract from the discomfort of his perception. “Everyone plays roles.”

“Indeed.” His smile suggested private amusement. “The question is which role is authentic and which is performance.”

The conversation was veering into dangerous territory. Evie changed tactics, reaching between them to loosen his belt, a bold move that would redirect his attention. “And what role are you playing tonight?”

Michael caught her wrist, stopping her motion with gentle but firm pressure. “I never said I was playing one.” He released her, allowing her to continue if she chose. “But I’d rather focus on you. Your… meteoric rise has drawn attention.”

“From the Maddox brothers,” Evie supplied, resuming her dance but leaving his belt fastened.

“Among others,” Michael confirmed. His hands returned to her hips, thumbs tracing the sharp angles of her hip bones. “They don’t typically take such immediate interest in new dancers. You’ve intrigued them.”

“Lucky me,” Evie murmured.

“That depends entirely on what you do with their attention,” Michael replied. His eyes held hers, searching for something beyond the artificial intimacy of their current position. “They reward those who prove useful. They eliminate those who disappoint.”

The blunt assessment sent a chill through her that contrasted sharply with the heat building between her thighs. “You make them sound dangerous.”

“All powerful men are dangerous in their own ways,” Michael said. “The question is whether the danger aligns with your interests or opposes them.”

“And what are your interests?” Evie asked, her voice lower now, her body moving against his with increasing urgency despite her efforts to maintain professional detachment. The physical responses she’d experienced during their previous encounter were returning with alarming intensity.

Michael’s hands tightened on her hips, guiding her into a rhythm that pressed her clit directly against the rigid outline of his cock beneath his pants. The friction was exquisite, sending waves of pleasure radiating through her lower body.

“My interest,” he said, “is in understanding what makes exceptional people tick. What drives them to become more than ordinary. What secrets they harbor.”

His gaze was too perceptive, too knowing. Evie closed her eyes, focusing on the physical sensation to escape the uncomfortable scrutiny. This was a mistake. The contact became more electric, her body responding with embarrassing enthusiasm.

“And you think I’m exceptional?” she asked. The question emerged breathier than intended as her body began building toward release. She shouldn’t allow this to happen again, should maintain professional boundaries, yet she craved the release with an intensity that overrode her better judgment.

“I know you are,” Michael replied. One hand left her hip, sliding between them to press directly against her clit. The contact nearly undid her. “Your intelligence shines through the performance. You observe more than a typical dancer. You catalog information.”

The implications of his assessment alarmed her, but her body was beyond caring, responding to his skilled touch with increasing urgency. She was close now, embarrassingly so, a combination of factors conspiring against her self-control. It was the drinks she’d had, hours of performing sensuality for others, the charged atmosphere of the club, Michael’s unsettlingly perceptive comments, his handsome face watching her, the physical deprivation since leaving Joe, the strange power she felt being the center of attention all night, the sheer animal attraction that defied rational explanation.

“The Maddox brothers recognized it immediately,” Michael continued, his hand increasing its pressure against her most sensitive spot. “That’s why they’ve been watching. They see potential in you that extends beyond the obvious.”

The words penetrated the fog of building pleasure. The Maddox brothers. Her mission. What she was really here for.

A treacherous thought slipped into her mind. Perhaps she could use this chemistry with Michael to extract information. If he truly had connections to the Maddox brothers, if he moved in their circles, he might possess valuable intelligence. And if sexual connection could loosen his tongue…

The justification felt hollow even as she formulated it. She didn’t want information from Michael. She wanted release. She wanted to surrender to the pleasure building within her, to experience again what had happened during their first encounter.

But that would be a choice. A deliberate crossing of lines she’d promised herself she wouldn’t cross again.

Joe’s face flashed in her mind, his gentle smile, his complete trust in her, his unwavering support of her decision to take this assignment despite not knowing its true nature. And here she was, grinding naked on another man’s lap, perilously close to orgasm, contemplating using sex as an intelligence gathering technique.

With enormous effort, Evie shifted her position, breaking the direct contact between Michael’s hand and her clit. “I think…” her voice emerged ragged, breathless, “our time is almost up.”

Disappointment and relief warred within her as the building pleasure receded, leaving her frustratingly unsatisfied yet relieved at maintaining some fragile boundary.

Michael studied her face, disappointment flickering briefly in his eyes before understanding replaced it. “Of course,” he said, allowing her to rise from his lap. “Professional boundaries.”

Evie turned away, retrieving her discarded clothing from the floor, using the moment to compose herself. Her hands trembled slightly as she slipped the G-string back on, followed by her top.

“You never answered my question,” she said once she’d regained some measure of composure. “About your connection to the Maddox brothers.”

Michael was adjusting his own clothing, smoothing wrinkles from his pants where she’d been seated. “Some questions are better answered through experience than explanation,” he replied, maddeningly vague.

“That’s not an answer at all,” Evie observed, frustration bleeding into her tone, whether from the conversation or her interrupted physical release, she couldn’t entirely tell.

“No,” Michael agreed with a small smile. “It isn’t.”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a money clip, peeling off several hundred-dollar bills. When Evie approached to accept the payment, he held it just a moment longer than necessary, ensuring their fingers brushed.

“I’d like to see you again,” he said. “Not just for this.” He gestured to encompass the room. “Perhaps somewhere beyond these walls.”

Part of Evie’s mission involved cultivating connections that might yield valuable intelligence. Someone with apparent ties to the Maddox brothers could prove invaluable. Yet there was something about Michael that defied easy categorization as merely a potential asset.

“I don’t typically see clients outside the club,” Evie replied cautiously.

“I’m not asking as a client,” Michael countered. “Consider it a conversation between two people who recognize something familiar in each other.”

Evie tucked the money into her bag, buying time as she considered her response. “I’ll think about it,” she said finally. Noncommittal, professional, yet leaving the door open if it proved mission relevant.

Michael nodded, accepting the ambiguous answer. “I’ll be here tomorrow night as well,” he said. “Same time, if you’re available.”

“I’ll check my schedule,” she replied with Destiny’s smile, reclaiming professional distance.

As they prepared to exit the Diamond Suite, Michael paused with his hand on the door. “One last thing,” he said, voice lowered. “Be careful with the attention you’ve attracted. The Maddox brothers can elevate you quickly, but their world operates by different rules than you might be accustomed to.”

The warning held genuine concern beneath its ambiguity. “Why tell me this?” Evie asked.

Michael considered her question, his expression unreadable. “Let’s just say I recognize potential when I see it. It would be a shame to see it squandered.” He opened the door, gesturing for her to precede him. “Until tomorrow, perhaps.”

Evie stepped into the hallway, her mind churning with unresolved questions, her body still buzzing with interrupted desire. Michael remained an enigma, potentially valuable to her mission yet impossible to categorize neatly as either asset or threat.

One thing was certain. He knew more than he was saying. About the club, about the Maddox brothers, possibly even about her.

As they parted ways at the end of the hallway, Michael heading toward the main floor while she returned to the dressing room, Evie couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just engaged in a complex dance with steps she only partially understood.

The cash in her hand, fifteen hundred dollars for a half hour’s work offered cold comfort against the growing sense that she was wading into increasingly dangerous waters. Waters where Michael swam with ease, while she was still learning to stay afloat.

—

The dressing room was relief. After the charged intimacy of the Diamond Suite, the chaos of hairspray fumes, discarded costumes, and dancers counting tips felt ordinary. Evie moved to her station on autopilot, body still buzzing with the frustrated desire she’d barely managed to contain.

She reached into her station drawer, fingers trembling slightly as she tucked away Michael’s fifteen hundred dollars. The night’s total now hovered around seven thousand. For a single shift. The amount was obscene, exhilarating, terrifying.

Her throat felt raw, parched. She moved toward the refrigerator in the corner where Loretta kept drinks stocked for the dancers. Opening it, Evie grabbed a bottle of water, twisting off the cap. She drank deeply, the cold liquid doing little to extinguish the heat still smoldering inside her.

Several dancers were gathered near the couches, laughing about a customer who’d spilled an entire bottle of champagne down his pants. Their conversation felt distant, as if happening in another dimension entirely. Evie needed space, silence, a moment to recalibrate her increasingly unstable sense of self.

She headed for the bathroom, which was mercifully empty. Evie locked herself in the furthest stall, dropping the toilet lid and sinking onto it.

She couldn’t decide if she wanted to scream, cry, laugh, or simply sit in stunned silence at what her life had become. Not even two weeks. That’s all it had taken to transform from Evelyn Sinclair, retail clerk at an upscale boutique, into Destiny, one of Elysium’s fastest-rising dancers.

Four shifts. Just four nights of work, and already the boundaries between performance and identity were eroding faster than she’d ever imagined possible. The terrifying part wasn’t how different this life was from her previous existence, it was how naturally she’d adapted to it.

The ease with which she’d stepped into Destiny’s stilettos, the instinctive understanding of the power dynamics, the fluid grace with which she now navigated this ecosystem of desire and transaction, what did it say about her that this role fit like a second skin rather than a foreign costume?

“It’s the mission,” Evie whispered to herself. “The mission is what matters.”

Lives were at stake. The courthouse bombing had claimed victims. Grant had said there could be “triple-digit casualties” if the Maddox brothers and Malcolm Kessler weren’t stopped. What was her temporary moral compromise against that potential death toll?

Yet the justification rang hollow, even as she repeated it to herself. Because somewhere beneath the noble goal of saving lives lurked a more uncomfortable truth, she was enjoying aspects of this assignment in ways she’d never anticipated.

The money, for one thing. Over seven thousand dollars tonight alone. At this rate, she’d amass a small fortune by the time the operation concluded. The promised $100,000 completion bonus, combined with her earnings from dancing, would transform her and Joe’s financial future entirely.

And the attention, God help her, but there was something addictive about being the focal point of so much concentrated desire. On stage, all eyes tracking her movements, bills appearing in outstretched hands. In private rooms, men hanging on her every word, their pulses visibly quickening at her proximity. Even the other dancers, watching her with that mixture of wariness and respect that came from her unnaturally rapid ascension.

Power. That’s what Victor had spoken about during their first meeting. The power dynamics, how dancers controlled desire rather than being controlled by it. She’d understood his meaning intellectually then, but now she felt it viscerally, embodied it with every movement, every smile, every interaction.

But at what cost? Evie Sinclair was receding, drowning beneath Destiny’s confidence and charm. What would be left of her when this was over? Who would return to Joe after three months, or longer, if Grant and Lexi had their way, immersed in this parallel reality?

Joe. The thought of him sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing through her. Faithful, trusting Joe, who believed she was off working some undefined investigation, not grinding naked against strangers for money.

How could she possibly explain any of this to him? The transformations happening inside her weren’t merely professional. They were reshaping her relationship to her own sexuality, her understanding of desire and fulfillment, her awareness of what her body was capable of feeling.

Would he recognize the woman who eventually returned to him? Would he want her, once he understood how completely she’d inhabited this other identity? Or would the chasm between who she’d been and who she’d become prove unbridgeable?

The more immediate concern twisting in her gut was how much longer she could maintain even the most basic fidelity. She’d already crossed lines she’d never imagined approaching, coming dangerously close to complete surrender tonight with Michael. And that was after just four days on the job, with nearly three months, potentially six, stretching ahead.

The orgasm with Michael during their first encounter had been unplanned, unexpected, her body betraying her before she’d fully realized what was happening. But tonight had been different. Tonight, she’d actually considered using sex as an intelligence gathering technique, had nearly convinced herself it was justified for the sake of the mission.

The rationalization terrified her more than the desire itself. If she could justify that step, what else might she eventually justify? Where exactly was the line she wouldn’t cross, and how would she recognize it when it approached?

Three months without sex, in an environment where sexuality was currency and intimacy was transactional, increasingly felt like a fantasy rather than a realistic commitment. She thought of the dildo they’d placed in her nightstand drawer, part of Vanessa Blake’s life. Its presence lingered in her awareness, an acknowledgment from her handlers that sexual release was a physical necessity they’d anticipated and accommodated.

Then there were the dating apps on her phone, Vanessa’s phone. They’d been preloaded with profiles, photos, preferences, all constructed to support her cover identity. She’d opened them out of curiosity, been startled by the hundreds of matches, men waiting for responses, messages unread, potential connections that Vanessa Blake could pursue with a few taps of her finger.

The bathroom door swung open, voices spilling in from the dressing room. Dancers comparing tips, complaining about clients, planning after-work drinks. Evie glanced at her watch, startled to realize she’d been sitting in the stall for nearly ten minutes, lost in her spiraling thoughts.

She stood, smoothing her outfit and gathering her composure. Whatever internal crisis she was navigating would have to wait. She had a job to do, a mission to complete, intelligence to gather.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Evie moved toward her station, intending to check her appearance before returning to the floor. She’d barely sat down when Tanya appeared beside her, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable.

“There you are,” Tanya said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Sorry,” Evie replied, reaching for a hairbrush. “Just needed a quick break.”

Tanya nodded, though something in her posture suggested urgency rather than understanding. “The Maddox brothers want to see you. Now.”

The brush froze mid-stroke. “Now? Both of them?”

“Yes,” Tanya confirmed, checking her watch. “They’re waiting in Victor’s office.”

The statement sent adrenaline surging through Evie’s system. This was it, the opportunity she’d been working toward, the access that would advance her mission. Yet the timing felt sudden, jarring in its immediacy.

“Should I change?” Evie asked, glancing down at her outfit, the black bra and thong she’d changed into after her stage performance, revealing but not her most elaborate ensemble.

Tanya shook her head. “No time. They don’t like to be kept waiting.” She paused, studying Evie’s face. “You look nervous.”

“I wasn’t expecting this tonight,” Evie admitted, which was true enough.

“They rarely operate according to anyone’s expectations but their own,” Tanya replied. “You’ve done well so far. Just be yourself. That’s clearly what’s caught their attention.”

The irony of the advice wasn’t lost on Evie. Being “herself” was precisely what she couldn’t do.

“Any specific reason they want to see me?” Evie asked, applying a fresh coat of lipstick with a hand she forced to remain steady.

“If there is, they didn’t share it with me,” Tanya said. She checked her watch again. “We should go. Follow me.”

Evie stood, taking a deep breath to center herself. This meeting could be the key that unlocked the entire operation, access to the Maddox brothers’ inner circle, to the information Grant and Lexi had sent her to obtain, to intelligence that might prevent future violence.

But it also represented stepping deeper into danger, closer to the men who had, according to Mia, broken a customer’s fingers one by one for touching a dancer inappropriately. Men who “eliminated” those who disappointed them, as Michael had so carefully phrased it.

She followed Tanya through the club, weaving between tables and customers, past the main stage where a dancer Evie didn’t recognize was performing. They reached the spiral staircase leading to the VIP section, where Marcus stood guard, his imposing figure blocking the path.

He nodded to Tanya, his gaze moving to assess Evie. He stepped aside without comment, allowing them to ascend.

Tanya led her past these rooms toward the door at the far end of the hall, Victor’s office, where Evie had met him on her first night. That meeting had been an initial assessment, this one potentially representing a more significant advancement.

Tanya paused, hand on the doorknob. “Ready?”

Evie nodded. For this meeting, she needed to be Destiny completely. Assured, captivating, unruffled by power or intimidation. Evelyn Sinclair, with her moral qualms and identity crisis, had no place in the room she was about to enter.

Tanya knocked once, then opened the door without waiting for a response. “Destiny’s here,” she announced, stepping aside to allow Evie to enter.

The office looked much as Evie remembered it but while Victor had been alone during their first meeting, now both Maddox brothers occupied the space.

Victor stood near the window, tablet in hand, his tailored suit impeccable despite the late hour. Beside him, lounging in one of the leather chairs sat Damien, larger than Evie had anticipated, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his dress shirt, dark eyes immediately fixing on her.

The door closed behind her with a soft click. Evie stepped forward into the lion’s den, leaving the relative safety of the world below.

Unlike their first meeting, Victor didn’t immediately acknowledge her presence, instead continuing to study something on his tablet.

Damien, by contrast, assessed her openly from his seat. His presence dominated the room despite his relaxed posture, a coiled energy in his stillness that suggested imminent movement.

“Destiny,” Victor finally spoke, setting his tablet aside and turning to face her. “Thank you for joining us. Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the chair across from Damien.

Evie moved the indicated seat. She crossed her legs, settled her hands in her lap, and met Victor’s gaze directly.

“Over seven thousand dollars so far,” Victor said. “In a single shift. That’s exceptional by any standard, but particularly for someone who’s only been dancing for… how long has it been now?”

“Four shifts,” Evie supplied, careful to keep pride rather than defensiveness in her tone. “Including tonight.”

Damien let out a low whistle, the sound casual in the formal atmosphere. “Four shifts,” he repeated, his voice deeper than his brother’s. “That’s either beginner’s luck or natural talent. Which would you say it is?”

The question felt like a trap, both options potentially problematic. Claiming luck minimized her abilities. Asserting talent might suggest overconfidence.

“I’d say it’s adaptability,” Evie replied. “Learning quickly from observation and applying that knowledge effectively.”

Victor’s expression was what might have been approval. “Interesting answer. Most dancers would have simply claimed talent and left it at that.”

“Most dancers haven’t earned seven thousand in a night after less than a week on the job,” Damien countered, leaning forward slightly. “Which raises questions.”

“Such as?” Evie prompted, maintaining Destiny’s composure while Evie’s internal alarms began to sound.

Victor resumed his position near the window, hands clasped behind his back. “Such as what motivates someone like you. What you value. What you’re willing to do, or not do, to achieve your goals.”

Relief washed through Evie. This wasn’t about her cover being compromised. This was a job interview, an assessment of her potential value to their organization.

“I’m curious,” Victor continued, “what matters most to you? Money, independence, status, security? People typically prioritize one above the others.”

The question was deceptively simple, the sort of thing that might appear in a corporate personality assessment. But Evie understood its deeper purpose, to identify her pressure points, her vulnerabilities, what leverage might be most effective in controlling her.

“Independence,” Evie answered. “Money is useful, status is temporary, and security is an illusion. Independence, true self-determination, that’s what matters.”

Damien and Victor exchanged a glance.

“You left an abusive relationship recently,” Victor stated. “That experience would certainly calibrate one’s priorities toward independence.”

“It clarified what I’m willing to tolerate,” Evie agreed, weaving truth into her cover story. “And what I’m not.”

“Which brings us to boundaries,” Damien said, his direct approach contrasting with his brother’s more indirect conversation. “Elysium offers various services to our most valuable clients. Standard dancing and companionship are just the foundation. Our VIP section operates with different expectations.”

“I understand that boundaries can be flexible,” Evie replied carefully, threading the needle between openness and self-preservation. “But I believe clarity about those boundaries benefits everyone involved. I don’t make assumptions about what’s expected, and I don’t appreciate others making assumptions about what I offer.”

Victor smiled. “Well articulated. But permit me a hypothetical scenario. A particularly valuable client, someone who spends, let’s say, fifty thousand dollars in a single evening, expresses interest in a more private interaction. One that exceeds standard club services. How would you handle that situation?”

The real question beneath the hypothetical was clear. Would she prostitute herself for the right price? Evie calculated her response carefully, knowing it needed to be neither an eager acceptance nor a moral rejection.

“I’d consider the specific request against my personal boundaries,” she replied. “Then I’d either accept with clear terms or decline with enough grace that the client still felt valued. In my experience, honest refusal delivered properly often garners more respect than reluctant acceptance.”

Damien’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Spoken like someone who’s navigated these waters before. Yet Tanya informed us this is your first dancing position.”

“The dynamics aren’t unique to dancing,” Evie countered. “Retail taught me plenty about managing expectations and deflecting unwanted advances. The setting changes, but human nature remains consistent.”

Victor nodded, seemingly satisfied with this explanation. “Let’s discuss another scenario. You overhear a conversation in the VIP section, something concerning business matters entirely unrelated to the club. Later, a client, perhaps from a competing organization, offers you ten thousand dollars for information about what you heard. What would you do?”

The question cut straight to issues of loyalty and discretion, fundamental concerns for men involved in potentially illegal operations. They needed to know if she could be trusted with the sensitive information she might be exposed to.

“I’d decline the offer and report the approach to management immediately,” Evie stated without hesitation. “Ten thousand dollars is substantial, but the long-term cost of betraying confidentiality would be incalculable. Trust, once broken, can’t be repaired, and my reputation is worth more than a one-time payment.”

“What if the offer was a hundred thousand?” Damien pressed, his intensity ratcheting up. “Everyone has a price. What’s yours?”

Evie met his gaze directly. “It’s not about the amount. It’s about understanding that short-term gain often leads to long-term destruction. I’ve survived by recognizing which opportunities are actually traps.”

A moment of silence followed as the brothers seemed to evaluate her response. Victor moved from the window to perch on the edge of his desk, closer to Evie now but still maintaining the physical elevation that symbolized his authority.

“You’re unusually articulate for someone in your position,” he observed. “Education?”

“Some college,” Evie replied, adhering to Vanessa’s backstory. “Life circumstances interfered with completion.”

“Pity,” Victor said, though his tone suggested intellectual assessment rather than genuine sympathy. “Formal education isn’t everything, of course. Your… practical intelligence is evident.”

“Final scenario,” Damien interjected, his patience for the theoretical conversation clearly waning. “You discover another dancer stealing from clients. Not just skimming tips, but actively lifting wallets, credit cards. What’s your move?”

This scenario probed her ethics from a different angle. Would she protect a colleague or prioritize the club’s interests?

“I’d approach her privately first,” Evie said, “make it clear that I’m aware of her actions and that they need to stop immediately. If they continued, I’d bring the matter to management.” She paused, then added, “Theft compromises everyone’s safety and livelihood. One person’s desperation doesn’t justify endangering the entire operation.”

The brothers exchanged another glance, something like approval registering in their expressions.

“You’ve answered our hypotheticals admirably,” Victor said, straightening from his perch on the desk. “Now, let me be direct about why we’ve called you here. Your rapid success has caught our attention, as has your particular approach to the work. You demonstrate a level of professionalism and perception that’s rare in new dancers.”

Evie watched as Victor continued. “The VIP section operates under different parameters than the main floor. Our clients there expect nothing less than perfection. Physically, intellectually, socially. They pay premium rates for premium experiences, which is why only a select few dancers are granted permanent access to the VIP section. Currently, we have six women who work exclusively upstairs. They are, without exception, extraordinary in multiple dimensions.”

“Occasionally, we invite main floor dancers upstairs for specific events or clients,” Damien added. “A few have proven themselves capable of handling the elevated expectations, at least temporarily.”

Evie noted how this aligned with what she’d learned from both Lexi and Kimmy, their occasional access to the VIP section contrasting with the permanent status of dancers like Alice, Wendy, and Doe.

“We’re considering expanding our permanent VIP roster,” Victor continued. “Your numbers suggest exceptional potential, but numbers alone aren’t sufficient.”

“Our concern,” Damien said bluntly, “is your inexperience. Four shifts is nothing. The burnout rate for new dancers is astronomical. They flame bright, then fade within weeks or months. We need sustainability, not just initial spark.”

Evie recognized the dual nature of this conversation. It was both a genuine assessment of her potential value to their operation and a crucial opportunity to advance her mission. Deeper access to the VIP section would mean proximity to the kind of intelligence Grant and Lexi were seeking.

“I understand your caution,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “May I ask what specific qualities distinguish the permanent VIP dancers from those who receive occasional invitations?”

The question seemed to please Victor. “An excellent query. The permanent team possesses several key attributes. Exceptional physical presentation, certainly, but also conversational sophistication, emotional intelligence, absolute discretion, and unwavering loyalty.”

“They understand that their role extends beyond simple entertainment,” Damien added. “They’re ambassadors for our broader business interests, confidantes to powerful men, observers who know when to see everything and say nothing.”

Victor nodded. “The compensation reflects these elevated expectations, of course. VIP dancers typically earn three to five times what even the most successful main floor dancers make. But the demands are correspondingly higher.”

Evie leaned forward slightly, genuine interest overriding her careful performance. “What exactly would those demands entail? Beyond what you’ve already described.”

Damien chuckled, the sound containing little actual humor. “Direct, aren’t you? I like that.”

Victor moved back to the window, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “VIP dancers attend private events outside the club. Exclusive parties, yacht gatherings, estate functions. They travel with select clients to destinations both domestic and international. They serve as companions, conversationalists, and whatever else is mutually agreed upon.”

“Whatever else is mutually agreed upon” was deliberately ambiguous, implications clear without being explicitly stated.

“And the parameters of these… mutual agreements?” Evie prompted, needing to understand where the boundaries might lie.

“That’s entirely between the dancer and the client,” Victor replied smoothly. “The club provides the introduction and ensures security protocols, but we don’t dictate terms beyond that. Anything agreed upon must be consensual and confidential on both sides.”

“Some dancers never cross certain lines,” Damien added, his intense gaze fixed on Evie. “Others are more… accommodating. Both approaches can be successful in the right context with the right clients. What matters is authenticity and consistency.”

“What matters most,” Victor corrected, “is trust. Nothing, not beauty, not charm, not even exceptional earnings, can compensate for a breach of trust.”

Evie understood they weren’t just speaking about dancer-client relationships, but about their own ability to trust her with proximity to their operation. If she advanced to the VIP section, she would potentially have access to precisely the kind of intelligence the FBI was seeking, conversations about illegal operations, connections to Malcolm Kessler, evidence of criminal conspiracies.

“Trust is foundational,” Evie agreed. “I imagine you’ve had experiences that have reinforced that belief.”

“Let’s just say we’ve learned which mistakes are too costly to make twice.”

Victor’s expression remained impassive, but his voice carried a new edge. “We’ve had dancers who thought they could leverage what they learned upstairs. Information brokers, journalists, even a would-be blackmailer. None of those situations ended well for the individuals involved.”

The warning couldn’t have been clearer if they’d drawn a diagram. Evie felt a chill despite the comfortable temperature of the office. These men eliminated threats without hesitation or remorse.

“I can understand your caution,” she said carefully. “Trust is earned through consistency over time, not words in a single conversation.”

Victor nodded, appearing pleased with her understanding. “Precisely. Which brings us to our current proposition. We’d like to see you maintain your performance through this weekend and next. If you continue to demonstrate the qualities we’ve discussed, we’ll consider offering you a permanent position in the VIP section.”

“Think of it as a trial period,” Damien added. “You’ll continue working the main floor, but with periodic opportunities upstairs to assess your compatibility with our premium clientele.”

“Do you have questions for us?” Victor asked, his tone suggesting the formal part of the interview was concluding.

Evie considered carefully, aware that her questions would reveal her priorities as much as her answers had. “Several, if you don’t mind. First, how would the transition work? Would I immediately stop working the main floor, or would it be gradual?”

“Initially, you’d split your time,” Victor explained. “Perhaps one or two nights upstairs, the remaining downstairs. As you established your VIP client base, the balance would shift accordingly.”

“And compensation? You mentioned three to five times the earnings, but is there a base guarantee or is it entirely dependent on client generosity?”

Damien smiled, appearing genuinely impressed by her business acumen. “The club guarantees a minimum of two thousand per shift for VIP dancers, regardless of client spending. Above that, you keep a higher percent of dance fees and client tips compared to the standard percent on the main floor.”

Evie did some quick calculations in her head. The numbers were staggering, before additional client spending. The financial incentive alone would be enough to tempt most dancers, regardless of what “additional services” might be expected.

“And the events outside the club… how frequently do those occur, and how much advance notice would I receive?” Evie asked, thinking about how such commitments might impact her ability to meet with her handlers or file reports.

“It varies seasonally,” Victor replied. “During winter and spring months, we might have two to three major events weekly. Summer is quieter in Miami, perhaps one or two. Typically, you’d have at least 72 hours notice, though occasional last-minute opportunities do arise.”

Evie nodded, processing this information. “And clients who request travel companions… what’s the typical duration, and how are those arrangements structured?”

“Most trips range from long weekends to perhaps a week,” Damien said. “The club handles all logistics. Flights, accommodations, security concerns. Compensation includes both a daily rate and any specific service fees negotiated directly with the client.”

“The safety protocols are extensive,” Victor added, correctly reading her underlying concern. “We verify client backgrounds thoroughly, maintain continuous contact during travel, and have extraction procedures in place should any situation become problematic.”

Evie filed away this information, recognizing its potential relevance to her mission. International travel with VIP clients could potentially connect directly to the broader investigation into Malcolm Kessler’s global network.

“Last question,” she said. “You mentioned there are currently six permanent VIP dancers. Is there a specific reason for expanding to seven at this particular time?”

The brothers exchanged another of their communicative glances, silently determining how much to reveal.

“We’re anticipating increased demand in the coming months,” Victor finally said. “Several significant business developments are approaching completion, which will bring new high-value clients into our orbit.”

“And one of our current VIP dancers is becoming… unreliable. Her replacement may be necessary sooner rather than later.”

The ominous undertone wasn’t subtle. Evie wondered what sort of “unreliability” had put this unnamed dancer at risk, and whether her fate would involve mere dismissal or something more permanent.

“I appreciate your candor,” Evie said, sensing the interview was drawing to a close. “And the opportunity you’re considering.”

Victor moved back to his desk, retrieving his tablet in a gesture that clearly signaled the end of their conversation. “Continue as you have been. Maintain your numbers, avoid complications, demonstrate the qualities we’ve discussed. We’ll be watching your performance closely.”

“Every aspect of it,” Damien added with deliberate emphasis. “We see everything that happens in this club, Destiny. Remember that.”

Evie rose gracefully from her chair, recognizing the dismissal. “I understand. Thank you for your time and consideration.”

“Tanya will provide any additional details you might need,” Victor said, already refocused on his tablet. “You may return to the floor now.”

Damien stood as well, his height and build more imposing at full stature. “I look forward to seeing how you progress,” he said, extending his hand. His grip when she accepted it was firm, conveying strength. “You have impressive potential.”

“Thank you,” Evie replied, meeting his gaze directly. “I don’t take the opportunity lightly.”

With that, she turned and walked to the door, maintaining Destiny’s confident posture despite the weight of everything she’d just learned. Her hand had barely touched the doorknob when Victor spoke again.

“One final thing, Destiny.”

Evie turned back, keeping her expression neutral despite the sudden acceleration of her pulse.

“We understand you’ve developed a rapport with Michael Laurent,” Victor said. “He’s requested your company again tomorrow night.”

“Yes, he mentioned he’d be returning.”

“Michael is a valued associate,” Damien commented. “His satisfaction is particularly important to our operation.”

“I understand,” Evie replied, though in truth, Michael’s connection to the Maddox brothers remained frustratingly cloudy.

“Good,” Victor nodded. “That will be all.”

This time, they allowed her to leave without further comment. Evie stepped into the hallway. She had passed this initial assessment, but the brothers’ scrutiny would only intensify from here.

—

Returning to the main floor after her meeting with the Maddox brothers felt like stepping into a different reality. The pounding music, flashing lights, and sea of bodies suddenly more mundane after the high-stakes conversation upstairs. Yet she moved through this chaos with newfound purpose, each interaction now filtered through the lens of what she’d learned.

The brothers would be watching. Every dance, every conversation, every decision would factor into their evaluation of her readiness for the VIP section.

She approached the floor with renewed focus, scanning for opportunities. A group of men in suits celebrating a business deal. Two wealthy-looking tourists speaking French at a corner table. A collection of younger men whose designer watches and shoes betrayed family money rather than earned wealth.

Evie navigated between these groups, ten minutes here, twenty there, creating the illusion of spontaneous connection while maximizing her earning potential. She laughed at the right moments, touched arms and shoulders, listened with apparent fascination to stories she’d forget the moment she moved on.

The Sapphire Rooms saw a steady rotation of clients willing to pay for three-song sets, each leaving with lighter wallets and the mistaken impression they’d made a genuine connection with her. One particularly generous software entrepreneur purchased three consecutive sets, his awkward eagerness suggesting he didn’t often patronize establishments like Elysium.

“You’re different from the other dancers,” he told her during their third set, his hands respectfully positioned on her waist as she moved against him. “More real somehow.”

The irony of his assessment wasn’t lost on Evie. Her entire presence here was fabricated, every aspect of Destiny carefully constructed for maximum appeal.

“That’s sweet of you to say,” she replied with a smile that revealed nothing of her thoughts. “I try to be present in the moment with each client.”

The man nodded eagerly. “That’s exactly it! Most dancers seem to be going through motions, but you… you make it feel real.”

Perhaps that was the true danger of this assignment, not the physical risks or moral compromises, but how easily she’d learned to manufacture authenticity, to create genuine-seeming connections from performance. Was she becoming too good at this deception? Where was the line between skilled undercover work and losing herself in the role?

When her turn on the main stage arrived again, Evie approached it with the knowledge that the Maddox brothers might be watching.

She utilized the full stage, working the pole with techniques she’d observed from the more experienced dancers, adding her own flourishes. Each removal of clothing became its own performance, stretched out to build anticipation rather than rushed through.

When she was finally naked, Evie moved to the front edge of the stage, making eye contact with various men around its perimeter. The money appeared immediately, hands extending bills of increasing denominations.

This wasn’t just dancing anymore. It was an audition for deeper access to their organization, for the intelligence that might bring down Malcolm Kessler and prevent whatever violence they were planning.

When her song ended, the applause was immediate and enthusiastic, accompanied by a final flurry of bills tossed onto the stage. Evie collected her earnings and clothing, aware that her exit was as much a part of the performance as the dance itself.

Back in the Sapphire Rooms, the night continued at its frantic weekend pace. Evie maintained her momentum, dancing for a succession of clients who’d been impressed by her stage performance. Hours later, her feet ached from the heels and her cheeks hurt from smiling.

Yet beneath the physical fatigue ran a current of satisfaction. The mission was advancing faster than anyone had anticipated. She had successfully caught the Maddox brothers’ attention, positioned herself for access to the VIP section, and gathered valuable intelligence about their operation.

When the club finally began to empty, Evie returned to the dressing room to change and count her earnings. The space was filled with dancers in various states of undress, comparing notes about clients, complaining about sore feet, tallying the night’s profits.

Evie settled at her station, sorting bills by denomination. The final tally was just over nine thousand dollars in a single shift. The number seemed surreal, detached from her reality.

“Holy shit,” Kimmy exclaimed, appearing beside Evie and glimpsing the stacked bills. “Is that all from tonight?”

Evie nodded, unable to suppress a small smile of satisfaction. “Friday crowds are generous.”

“Generous is getting an extra twenty in your Christmas card,” Kimmy said, her eyes wide. “That’s a fucking fortune. What did you do, find an oil sheikh?”

Mia appeared on Evie’s other side, already changed into jeans and a loose sweater, her stage makeup still intact but her demeanor shifted back toward off duty. “Leave the poor woman alone, Kimmy. She’s probably exhausted.” She glanced at Evie’s earnings and let out a low whistle. “But… I am professionally obligated to ask for your secrets because damn.”

Evie laughed, the sound genuine despite her fatigue. “No secrets. Just worked the room, maximized time with high-spending clients, and got lucky with generous tippers during my stage sets.”

“Bullshit,” Kimmy said good-naturedly. “Something’s different about you. The way you move, how you talk to clients. It’s like you’ve been doing this for years, not days.”

Evie busied herself with tucking the money into her bag. “I’m a quick study,” she replied, deflecting. “And I had good teachers.” She nodded toward Kimmy and Mia with genuine appreciation.

“Well, whatever your method, it’s working,” Mia conceded. “We’re heading to that diner on Collins for some food. Want to join? I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”

The invitation tempted Evie. These women were becoming friends, and the normal social interaction would be a welcome reprieve from the transactional nature of the club. Yet exhaustion pulled at her limbs, and she needed time to process everything that had happened, especially her conversation with the Maddox brothers.

“I’d love to, but I’m dead on my feet,” Evie said apologetically. “Rain check?”

“Absolutely,” Kimmy replied. “But you’re not escaping without giving us at least some details. Spill it. We saw you disappear with Tanya. What happened?”

Evie hesitated, calculating what information would be safe to share versus what needed to remain confidential. The truth, that she’d been interviewed by the Maddox brothers for potential advancement to the VIP section, wasn’t necessarily secret, but discretion seemed prudent.

“Just a meeting with management,” she said with a casual shrug. “Performance review, I guess you could call it.”

Mia’s eyebrows shot up. “With both Maddox brothers?”

Seems word traveled fast in the club, even without explicit confirmation. “Yeah,” Evie acknowledged, seeing no point in denial. “They wanted to discuss my progress so far.”

“Holy shit,” Kimmy breathed. “That’s not a standard performance review, Destiny. That’s… significant.”

“What did they say?” Mia pressed, leaning closer and lowering her voice.

Evie chose her words carefully. “They acknowledged I’ve been doing well. Suggested they’re considering me for additional opportunities if I maintain my performance.”

Kimmy and Mia exchanged a meaningful glance.

“The VIP section,” Mia concluded quietly. “They’re considering you for upstairs.”

Evie neither confirmed nor denied, but her expression must have revealed enough.

“Fuck me sideways,” Kimmy muttered. “Four shifts in and they’re already grooming you for the inner circle. That’s unprecedented.”

“It’s just exploratory at this point,” Evie cautioned, uncomfortable with their obvious awe. “Nothing’s decided.”

“Still,” Mia insisted, “it took me three months to get even occasional VIP invitations. You must have really impressed them.”

“Or Victor saw how quickly you’re making bank and decided to capitalize on it,” Kimmy added. “He’s got a gift for spotting profit potential.”

Evie nodded, relieved by Kimmy’s more practical assessment. “Probably that. Anyway, nothing’s changing right now. They want to see me maintain performance through this weekend and next.”

“Well, you’ve got our full support,” Mia said, sounding genuinely supportive despite what could have been a competitive situation. “If you need any advice about working upstairs, I’m happy to share what I know, limited as it is.”

Kimmy nodded in agreement. “Me too. But clearly you’re the one who should be mentoring us at this point.” She gestured toward Evie’s bag with its substantial contents. “I had what I thought was a great night, but you just doubled my earnings.”

Evie felt a rush of appreciation for these women. The fact that this connection was built on her false identity remained a persistent discomfort.

“I appreciate that,” Evie said sincerely. “And I might take you up on it. This is all so new, and having people I can trust means a lot.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Kimmy said, giving Evie’s shoulder a squeeze. “Now go home and crash. Tomorrow will be even busier, and you’ll need your energy.”

“Especially if the Maddox brothers are evaluating you for VIP,” Mia added. “Saturday shifts are their biggest revenue nights. They’ll be watching closely.”

The reminder sent a small shiver through Evie. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They finished gathering their belongings, Evie changing into jeans and a comfortable sweater that transformed her back into someone closer to her true self, though the makeup and general aura of Destiny remained intact. The three women walked together through the employee exit, the cool night air a welcome relief after hours in the club’s artificial atmosphere.

“My car’s over there,” Evie said, gesturing toward the far end of the lot where her Honda was parked.

“We’re headed this way,” Mia replied, pointing in the opposite direction. “Text when you get home safe?”

The simple concern touched Evie unexpectedly. “Of course. You too.”

“See you tomorrow, superstar,” Kimmy called over her shoulder as they parted ways. “Sleep well. You’ve earned it!”

Inside her car, Evie locked the doors before starting the engine. The simple action was second nature now, a safety protocol she’d adopted without conscious thought. The city at night held dangers for a woman leaving a strip club with thousands in cash.

The drive home passed by in a blur of streetlights and empty roads. Miami never truly slept, but 3:30 AM represented a brief lull in its usual pulsing energy. Evie’s mind drifted between practical concerns and deeper uncertainties, replaying key moments from her conversation with the Maddox brothers while planning her approach to tomorrow’s shift.

Her apartment building stood dark and quiet when she arrived, most residents long since asleep. Evie parked in her designated spot, then made the short walk to her unit.

Inside her apartment, Evie engaged the deadbolt, dropped her bag on the counter, and stood for a moment in the stillness.

She moved to the bathroom, where she began the process of removing Destiny piece by piece. Makeup wipes revealed the skin beneath the enhancement. Shower water washed away the scent of the club, the perfume, alcohol, sweat.

But Destiny wasn’t so easily removed anymore. Even standing naked in her shower, face bare, body unmarked by the club’s atmosphere, Evie felt her presence lingering, in the confident posture she’d unconsciously adopted, in the assessments that now filtered her perceptions, in the easy manipulation of others she’d mastered with disturbing speed.

After her shower, wrapped in a soft robe, Evie returned to the kitchen to deal with her earnings. She counted again, separating bills, recording the total in a small notebook she kept in her bag. Nine thousand, two hundred and forty dollars. A staggering sum for a single night’s work.

She placed the money in the bottom drawer of her dresser, beneath folded sweaters that had come with the apartment, that belonged to Vanessa Blake rather than Evelyn Sinclair. Her total earnings now exceeded twenty thousand dollars, what she’d make in five months at her retail job.

The financial reality of her new life remained one of its most disorienting aspects. Evelyn Sinclair had budgeted carefully, counted pennies, worried about the mortgage she shared with Joe. Destiny measured money in thousands, earned more in a night than most people made in a month, viewed cash as merely the tangible evidence of her power rather than a constant source of anxiety.

Evie moved to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, then retrieved the burner phone. Time for her nightly check-in. She opened the secure messaging app and began typing.

“Status green. Successful first Friday shift with significant intelligence gathered. Meeting with both Maddox brothers. Potential advancement to VIP section discussed pending evaluation over next weekend. Brothers referenced ‘increased demand in coming months’ and ‘significant business developments approaching completion.’ Mentioned expanding permanent VIP dancer roster from six to seven.”

She paused, considering how much personal detail to include. Her handlers needed to know about her progress, but the specific methods, her unexpected aptitude for this world, its disorienting effect on her sense of self, seemed peripheral to the mission parameters.

“Established positive relationship with several high-spending clients,” she continued. “Maintaining cover effectively. No sign of suspicion. Will continue gathering intelligence through weekend shifts.”

The reply came quickly, suggesting her handler was waiting for her report: “Excellent progress. Accelerated timeline offers significant operational advantage. Continue cultivating Maddox brothers’ interest. VIP access critical to primary mission objectives. Maintain current approach and exercise caution.”

The impersonal response felt appropriate to Evie’s current state, too exhausted for emotion, operating purely on strategy.

In the bedroom, Evie set her alarm for noon. Another late start tomorrow, another night at Elysium, another step deeper into this parallel life she’d constructed. She slipped beneath the covers, her body aching from hours in heels, from the physical demands of dancing, from the subtle strain of constant performance.

Sleep should have come immediately given her exhaustion, but her mind refused to quiet. Images and conversations from the night replayed in continuous loops, the Maddox brothers’ assessment, Michael’s perceptive gaze, the weight of bills in her hand, the faces of men who believed they knew something about her when they knew nothing at all.

Evelyn Sinclair had been straightforward, honest to a fault, uncomfortable with deception even when socially expedient. Yet here she was, lying professionally, using intimacy as currency, exploiting others’ desires for her mission objectives. And doing it all with disturbing skill.

When this was over, who would return to Joe? Evie the retail clerk, the devoted wife? Or some hybrid creature, forever changed by this experience, unable to fully shed Destiny’s charm and sexual confidence?

The uncertainty followed her into uneasy dreams, where she danced on stages that transformed beneath her feet, for audiences whose faces shifted between Joe, the Maddox brothers, her FBI handlers, her father. In the dream, she couldn’t tell if she was performing or authentic, couldn’t discern where the boundaries lay between who she was and who she pretended to be.

Morning would come soon enough, bringing Saturday night’s shift and its escalating demands. The Maddox brothers would be watching. Michael would be waiting. The mission would advance, regardless of her personal doubts or moral qualms.

For now, in these brief hours of solitude, Evie surrendered to exhaustion, allowing sleep to temporarily suspend the questions that had no easy answers. Tomorrow, Destiny would return. For tonight, at least, Evie could rest.