certain kind of madness

Crouching to pick up my clothes from the sticky floor of the club's private unit, the sharp sting on my ass landed before the rage could. I whipped around.

There he was-smug grin plastered across his chiseled, fake-tanned face. One of those men who wore expensive cologne like it could mask the rot underneath. His suit screamed money, but his eyes-those were all gutter.

"Why don't I pay for the night, sweetheart?" he said, voice dripping with entitlement.

Bastard.

I straightened, holding his gaze, heels clicking threateningly as I stood at full height. "I don't do nights," I said, the words sharp as razors. "But I can send in someone who does." I tried not to snarl, but I couldn't help the edge in my voice.

He chuckled like I'd just flirted. Entitled men hear what they want.

Clipping the underbelt of my strip dress, I adjusted the sides with practiced hands. I scooped up the wad of bills left on the glass table-tips I earned the hard way-and turned toward the door.

"Oh come on, sweet tits," he growled. "You'll love to have my cock deep inside that tight little cu-"

"No thank you, I'm good," I cut him off, voice calm, firm.

The air shifted. He lunged.

In a flash, his hand gripped my wrist and shoved me hard against the velvet-lined wall. My back thudded, breath caught in my throat as he pinned both my arms above my head, face too close, breath sour with whiskey and power.

"I wasn't asking for it, cunt. I want it. And I'm getting it," he hissed, leaning in for a kiss I never consented to.

Big mistake.

I brought my knee up hard between his legs. He gasped, choked on his own pain, and tumbled to the ground, clutching his groin.

"Bitch-"

Before he could finish, I twisted his wrist behind his back and shoved him face-first into the carpet, my silver-painted nails pressing into the side of his neck. I leaned in close, voice laced with venom.

"This all part of foreplay, darling?" he panted out, still cocky even with his balls shriveling in pain. "'Cause you should know-I take it rough."

I could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

"Yeah, sure. You can call it that," I said, twisting his wrist harder.

He yelped.

"Not my first rodeo, cowboy."

It never is. With a job like mine, you meet men like him all the time-men who mistake power for permission, charm for consent. They never understand that "no" doesn't come with negotiation.

I shoved myself off him and barged out of the lounge, the sound of the door slamming behind me reverberating through the dim hallway.

The corridor outside pulsed with low beats and muted lights. I walked fast, arms wrapped around my waist like a shield, navigating through the maze of bodies and smoke and glitter. The whole place felt like it was suffocating me.

I needed air. Space. Silence.

I pushed open the swinging bathroom door and headed straight for the last stall. The moment the lock clicked, I collapsed onto the toilet seat.

And exhaled.

My breath came out broken.

I didn't plan to cry. I never do.

But then the tears slipped through the cracks anyway-silent at first, then gasping. My chest shook.

"You're not going to fucking cry, Layla," I whispered between hiccups. "Don't you dare cry."

But that only made me cry harder.

I cried for the little girl who just wanted love.

I cried for the girl who had so many career prospects-bright, hopeful, driven.

I cried for the girl who didn't get to have a childhood, who grew up too fast and too hard.

And I cried for the girl who-somewhere along the way-started believing she didn't deserve happiness. That it was for people with cleaner pasts and softer hearts.

I let it all out. Ugly sobs and smudged mascara.

I didn't cry because I was weak. I cried because I had carried strength like a blade for too long.

When the tears finally dried, I wiped my face with some scratchy toilet paper, reapplying my war paint with shaky hands.

Tonight, I would drink.

And tomorrow, I would survive.

Because that's what I do.