A Night With My Stepbrother

The mop water was already murky, and Isabel's arms ached from scrubbing down the same corner of the bar for the third time. The dim neon light over the liquor shelf flickered, casting Jenna's shadow long across the sticky floor as she stacked stools on tables.

"You know this place never looks clean, no matter how hard we scrub?" Jenna muttered, tossing her rag over one shoulder. "I'm convinced it's built out of grime."

Isabel gave a weak laugh, kneeling to pick up a bottle cap someone had jammed under the leg of a barstool. "At least it pays," she said, though even she didn't believe it anymore.

Jenna looked over, hand on her hip. "Barely."

They both fell into a stretch of silence. The hum of the old refrigerator and the occasional clink of glass were the only sounds in the otherwise empty place. The bar had closed nearly an hour ago, and the patrons had long since stumbled out into the warm summer night.

"You okay?" Jenna asked after a beat, tilting her head. "You've been chewing your lip all night."

Isabel blinked. She hadn't even realized she was doing it. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"Tuition," she said with a sigh. "Rent. My dad. Life. Do you know he got remarried?"

"Yikes." Jenna grabbed a spray bottle and started wiping the sticky surface of the bar. "Well, I can help you with one of those."

Isabel raised an eyebrow. "Which one? Life?"

"Sort of. Money." Jenna glanced at her and grinned. "I've got a plan."

"Oh no," Isabel said immediately, standing to rinse her cloth at the sink. "I've seen that look before."

"No, listen." Jenna leaned on the bar now, excitement glittering in her eyes. "You know Lana? The redhead who used to bartend here before she 'found something better'?"

Isabel nodded slowly. "Yeah?"

"She started doing lap dances at this private gentleman's club in the city. And girl..." Jenna leaned in like she was about to share a state secret. "She made two grand in one night."

Isabel choked. "Two thousand?!"

"Yup. For like four hours of work. And she said the club's exclusive, clean, super high-end. No creeps allowed."

Isabel's stomach twisted. "Okay, and what does this have to do with you?"

Jenna's eyes sparkled. "We go. Just for one night. Try it out. If it's weird, we leave. But imagine what you could do with that kind of cash, Iz."

"I-Jenna, I can't do that." Isabel's laugh was nervous, almost defensive. "You know me. I-I can barely take off my hoodie in front of strangers."

"It's not like that," Jenna said quickly. "It's not sleazy. You set your boundaries. You dance, you get tipped. That's it."

Isabel hesitated. Her thoughts swirled with her empty bank account, the rising tuition letter sitting unopened in her drawer, and the silent number saved in her phone under Dad that hadn't lit up in months.

"I don't know," she whispered.

"It's just one night," Jenna said gently. "One night, and we'd make more than we've earned scrubbing this dump for a whole year. And hey-" she nudged Isabel's arm-"we'll treat it like a celebration. High school's over. We're nineteen, out of this hellhole soon. What's more fitting than one night pretending we're rich and hot and untouchable?"

Isabel gave her a long, skeptical look.

"Come on," Jenna coaxed. "You've been killing yourself working double shifts all month. You deserve one night of feeling in control."

There was silence.

Then Isabel said, so quietly Jenna barely caught it, "We're not doing anything crazy."

Jenna grinned. "Promise. And if you chicken out, I'll cover for you. Just come with me. That's all I'm asking."

Isabel exhaled, a mixture of nerves and something like adrenaline rising in her chest. "Fine. One night."

Jenna squealed, hugging her from behind. "You won't regret this! Okay, okay-we need outfits. Something sexy but not too sexy. And shoes. Do you even own heels?"

Isabel rolled her eyes, but she was smiling despite herself. "Not the kind you're thinking of."

"Well, that changes tonight."

They left the bar with damp shirts clinging to their backs, the humidity wrapping around them like a second skin. Jenna had already pulled her phone out, tapping furiously as they walked down the quiet street toward her beat-up hatchback.

"There's a boutique still open till ten," she said. "Not the cheap kind, but we don't have time to be picky."

"I can't spend a fortune on clothes I'll never wear again," Isabel muttered, wrapping her arms around herself.

Jenna waved her off. "You'll thank me later."

The boutique sat on the edge of downtown, all glass walls and sleek mannequins draped in glitter and satin. Isabel hesitated at the entrance, staring at the glossy black heels in the display window.

"This place looks expensive," she whispered.

Jenna pushed the door open with one hip. "Expensive men like expensive taste. We need to look like we belong."

Inside, the lighting was warm and golden, casting a flattering glow over everything. Isabel ran her fingers over a rack of slinky dresses-deep red, midnight blue, black so rich it shimmered. They felt soft, sensual, and terrifyingly adult.

Jenna grabbed two hangers. "Try these."

Isabel held up the first dress, her mouth falling open. "There's barely any fabric."

"That's the point." Jenna winked. "It's art."

Isabel sighed but followed her to the dressing room anyway. The curtain swished closed behind her, and for a long second, she just stood there, staring at her reflection.

Her t-shirt hung loose over her frame, her jeans faded and fraying at the knees. She didn't look like someone who belonged in a gentleman's club. She looked like a kid with a backpack full of overdue bills.

She swallowed, then peeled the shirt off.

The dress clung to her like second skin. It was a dark emerald green, with thin straps and a plunging neckline that made her heartbeat trip. She stepped out slowly.

Jenna's eyes widened. "Oh my God."

"Too much?" Isabel asked, tugging at the hem.

"Too perfect," Jenna corrected. "You're going to stop hearts in that thing."

Isabel turned back to the mirror, brushing her hair off her shoulder. "I look... different."

"You look like a woman who knows what she's worth." Jenna handed her a pair of black stilettos. "Try these."

Isabel slipped them on, wobbling for a second before catching her balance.

"I'm going to break my ankle," she said, laughing nervously.

"Worth it," Jenna said.

They spent the next hour trying on combinations-dresses that shimmered like liquid gold, heels that threatened to kill their arches, and lipsticks in shades they'd never dared to wear. Isabel finally settled on the green dress, a sleek clutch, and heels that didn't feel like medieval torture devices.

At checkout, Jenna insisted on splitting the cost.

"You'll pay me back after you're rolling in tips," she said, waving off Isabel's protests.

Outside, the air had cooled slightly, a soft breeze brushing over their bare shoulders as they climbed into Jenna's car. Isabel rested her shopping bag on her lap and stared out the window.

"You sure about this?" she asked.

Jenna started the engine. "No. But I'm excited."

Isabel smiled faintly. "I'm scared."

"Same thing, right?"

They drove in comfortable silence, the radio playing something low and sultry. Isabel closed her eyes briefly, letting the music and movement lull her. She could still feel the way the fabric hugged her body, the whisper of confidence that had stirred in the dressing room.

Maybe this was what stepping out of herself felt like.

They were a few blocks from home when Isabel's phone buzzed in her bag.

She reached for it lazily, expecting a text from a classmate or a meme from Jenna. Instead, her fingers froze around the phone as the name on the screen flashed:

Dad.

For a moment, she couldn't breathe.

She hadn't heard from him in six months. Not since he left that voicemail she never replied to-half-drunk apologies, background noise, silence.

Jenna glanced over at her. "You okay?"

Isabel stared at the screen like it might bite her. Her throat tightened.

"I-" Her thumb hovered over the green icon. Then the phone stopped ringing.

One missed call.

Jenna slowed at a red light. "Was that...?"

"My dad," Isabel said, her voice hollow.

They sat there, the streetlights blinking above them. Isabel looked down at the screen again. One missed call, no message. Just a silence that weighed more than words.

Jenna didn't push.

"Do you want to go back?" she asked gently.

Isabel hesitated. "No," she said finally. "Let's just... get home."

Isabel lay on her bed, the green dress draped across her chair like it was watching her. The bag from the boutique sat half-zipped on the floor, shoes peeking out like a dare.

Her phone rested on her chest, dark screen reflecting the ceiling light. She hadn't moved since getting home.

Instead, her mind kept circling that call. Dad. A name that still made something sharp twist in her stomach. He'd disappeared right when things got hard-after Mom died, after the bills piled up, after promises broke under their own weight. When he finally resurfaced, it was always in fragments: a voicemail here, a half-apology there. Never something whole. Never something steady. Worst of all, married.

She wanted to believe he'd changed.

She wanted not to care if he hadn't.

A knock tapped at her door.

"Yeah?" she called, sitting up.

Her roommate poked her head in. "Hey, I'm making some smoothies. Want any?"

"No, thanks. I'm okay."

Her roommate gave her a lingering look, eyes narrowing just slightly. Isabel knew that look. It always came when she was too quiet, too still.

"You sure?"

"I'm just tired."

A pause. "Alright. Nighty night."

The door clicked shut. Isabel leaned back against the headboard and exhaled.

She reached over and picked up the dress. The fabric felt smooth, heavy with intention. She held it up against her body and stood in front of the mirror.

This wasn't her.

But maybe that was the point.

For one night, she wouldn't be the girl scraping pennies together for textbooks. She wouldn't be the daughter waiting for a call that might never come. She'd be... someone else. Someone who wasn't so scared all the time.

The reflection stared back at her. She looked older in it. Stronger. Or maybe just pretending better.

The phone buzzed again.

Jenna:

"Bring that green dress. You looked 🔥🔥🔥 in it. We're gonna OWN that club."

A soft laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it.

She typed back quickly.

Isabel:

"Fine. But if I trip in those heels, I'm blaming you."

Jenna:

"Fair. But at least you'll fall looking hot."

She scrolled through her phone.

1 New Voicemail: Dad.

She stared at the screen.

But this time, she didn't press play.

The morning sunlight crept across Isabel's bedroom floor like it was sneaking in, afraid to be noticed. She lay still, eyes on the ceiling, the phone clutched to her chest like it might vanish if she let go.

The voicemail was still sitting there.

Unread. Unheard.

She hadn't slept well-not with that name flashing behind her eyelids all night. Dad. A word that had started to feel more like a wound than a person.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. Then, finally, she exhaled and pressed play.

"Hey, Isa. It's me. Um... I know it's been a while."

Her eyes fluttered shut.

"I won't waste your time with excuses. I just... I wanted to hear your voice. I miss you. Listen, Vivian's putting together this family trip thing. A getaway, she called it. Luxury resort in Sicily. Yeah, I know-it's... a lot. But she really wants you there."

A pause.

"I know you probably don't want to see me. But maybe this isn't about me. Just think about it. Call me back, alright?"

The voicemail ended with a click.

Isabel stared at her phone like it might offer her answers, maybe even closure. But it stayed silent, screen going black again.

She threw the blanket off and padded to the kitchen, barefoot on cold tile. The apartment was still, save for the hum of the old fridge. She made coffee without thinking, the motions automatic: pour water, scoop grounds, flick the switch. But her hands shook when she reached for the mug.

Sicily. A family trip.

She almost laughed. Her father hadn't visited her in over a year, hadn't called in months, and now he wanted her to play happy family on some coastal paradise with a woman she barely knew and a stepbrother she'd never met?

She took her coffee to the small table by the window. Outside, kids rode their bikes in loops and loops around the cracked sidewalk. She sipped the bitter brew, her thoughts louder than the world around her.

Part of her wanted to delete the message, block the number, and bury it like she'd buried so many of his promises.

But another part... a quieter, weaker part... wanted to see what was left of the man who used to tuck her in at night, hum off-key lullabies, and chase monsters from under the bed.

Her phone buzzed again.

Dad – Incoming Call

Isabel flinched.

Then she answered.

"...Hello?"

"Isa." The voice on the other end sounded relieved. "Thank you for picking up."

"I'm not staying long," she said sharply.

"That's fair," he replied. "I just wanted to say it in person. Vivian's been planning this for months. It's important to her. And to me."

"I don't even know her."

"You'll get to know her," he said gently. "You'll like her. And Alessandro-he's her son-he's the one who made all the arrangements. You'll have your own room, your space, everything you need."

"I don't need a vacation," Isabel said. "I need to pay for college."

"I know. I know you're working hard. You always do. But just... come for a few days. We'll talk. There's something about being away from all this, you know? Might help."

Isabel stared out the window. A little girl had fallen off her bike and was picking herself up, brushing gravel from her knees. Her eyes stung unexpectedly.

"I don't know, Dad."

"Vivian really wants this," he said again. "She's been trying so hard to connect. And I know I've messed up. I know I hurt you. But this... it's a step. It's something."

Isabel was quiet for a long time.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low. "When?"

"Friday. We leave in the morning. We'll go as a family. I'll text you everything."

"I'll find my way to the place."

There was a pause.

"Your stepbrother made the bookings. We'll see you Friday."

The line went dead.

Isabel stared at the phone long after the call ended, her thumb hovering over the screen like it might ring again. Her father's words echoed inside her like a dull throb: "Vivian really wants this. Your stepbrother made the bookings-we'll see you Friday."

Friday.

She dropped the phone on the couch and stood there, frozen, her arms crossed tight against her chest like they could hold back whatever this was-this ache, this irritation, this sick churn of confusion.

A family trip.

To a resort.

After months of silence.

She didn't know whether to scream or laugh.

Her father hadn't even asked how she was. Not really. He'd said he missed her, but it sounded like a line rehearsed in someone else's mirror. A peace offering, maybe. Or a bribe.

Her shoulders sagged.

This was Vivian's doing. Of course it was. That woman had always tried too hard to play mother, pushing herself into Isabel's life like some over-perfumed placeholder.

And stepbrother?

Isabel had never even met the guy.

"Earth to Isabel," Jenna said from the hallway, arms full of a plastic bag bursting with makeup and hairspray. "Did you die in here?"

Isabel didn't answer.

Jenna stepped into the room and frowned. "Okay, what happened? You look like someone canceled Christmas."

"My dad," Isabel said quietly. "He wants me to come on some family trip. Sicily. A bonding thing."

Jenna blinked. "Wait, I was even shocked last night, your dad called? Like, Albert the Ghost?"

"Yeah."

"Holy shit. That's... random."

Isabel sat down, slow and stiff. "I haven't spoken to him since the wedding."

"Which was, like... what, almost a year ago?" Jenna sank beside her on the couch. "That's shady timing. Why now?"

"He didn't say." Isabel's voice cracked, and she hated that. "Just that Vivian wants it. And that my stepbrother made the arrangements."

Jenna turned her head slowly. "You have a stepbrother?"

"Apparently."

"Well that's new. What do you even know about him?"

"Nothing." Isabel rubbed her forehead. "I didn't go to the wedding. I didn't ask. And my dad never brought him up before."

Jenna was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. "I mean, if they're offering an all-expense-paid trip to some five-star resort in Sicily, I'm not saying go, but maybe don't burn the invite just yet."

Isabel shot her a look. "It's not about the trip."

"Then what is it?"

"It's about him calling only because she asked him to. About being left out of his life until it's convenient for her image. It's about him pretending like everything's fine when he never once came to visit or even asked me how school was going."

Jenna sighed. "Babe, I get it. I do. He screwed up. But you're not hurting him by saying no. You're just giving him one less chance to fix it."

Isabel stared at her knees.

"Besides," Jenna added lightly, nudging her, "what if your stepbrother is some awkward trust fund nerd with acne and social anxiety? You'll survive."

That earned a faint smile. "Why are you like this?"

"Because if I don't make you laugh, you'll wallow. And if you wallow, we'll be late to the club, and then I'll be poor and pretty with no makeup money."

Isabel leaned back into the couch, her thoughts tangled and raw.

Was it worth it?

To show up and be polite for a few days?

Could she keep her walls up long enough not to care?

"Are you gonna go?" Jenna asked.

"I don't know," Isabel whispered.

She did know. Part of her had already said yes. Maybe out of guilt. Maybe because some tiny, bruised part of her still wanted to be seen by the man who used to braid her hair before school and whisper, You're stronger than the world thinks.

She hated that she still wanted that.

"Come on," Jenna said, pulling her up by the wrist. "You can cry about rich-people problems later. Right now, we've got fake lashes to glue and heels to break in."

Isabel let out a breath and followed her.

She didn't feel ready.

For anything.

But maybe pretending was better than feeling.

-----

High above the city, the top floor of the De'Luca Tower shimmered with white glass, gold accents, and silence broken only by the low hum of voices and the sharp clink of whiskey tumblers.

Alessandro De'Luca leaned back in his leather chair, fingers steepled, a slight curve to his mouth that wasn't quite a smile.

He didn't smile often. He didn't need to.

The deal had closed.

Ten million euro. Clean. Quick. Wrapped up in less time than it took most men to sign a mortgage.

The boardroom still buzzed with the aftershock-his team clustered in twos and threes, voices low, energy electric. They were too smart to cheer, but the satisfaction was thick in the air. Like blood after a hunt.

"Beautifully done, boss," Marco said, lifting his glass. "That London investor didn't know what hit him."

"London investors rarely do," Alessandro replied, voice smooth. "They get lost in charm. Then numbers."

Laughter rolled lightly through the room.

Alessandro stood. Tailored navy suit, no tie, cuffs unbuttoned just enough to feel like rebellion. He moved with the quiet confidence of a man used to being obeyed before he finished speaking.

"Where's Luca?" he asked.

"Talking to the legal team downstairs."

"Tell him to wrap it up. We're celebrating."

Marco raised a brow. "Here?"

"No," Alessandro said. He stepped to the window, looking down on the glittering sprawl of Milan. "We've earned something more... entertaining."

A pause.

"The club?" Marco asked.

Alessandro's gaze sharpened.

"Which one?"

"The new one-the one with the no-phones policy. Private booths, live shows, top-tier girls. Discreet, luxurious, and very expensive."

"Sounds like a dream."

Alessandro turned back to the room. "Tell the driver. And make sure they prep the executive lounge."

"Yes, sir."

He checked his watch. Almost nine. Late enough that the crowd would be warm. Not so late that the good ones had left.

He didn't need entertainment. Not really. But tonight, it felt... appropriate. He'd kept his hands clean for months. Focused. Strategic. The cold grind of business left little room for indulgence.

But even wolves needed to feed.

As the men began to filter out, Alessandro lingered. His phone buzzed on the table.

Vivian.

He almost didn't answer.

Almost.

He picked it up.

"Yes?"

"You didn't forget, did you?" Her voice was clipped, soft in a way that meant controlled annoyance. "The resort. The arrangements."

"I made the bookings, didn't I?"

"You haven't confirmed with the staff."

"I'll handle it."

"You're not dodging the trip?"

Alessandro exhaled through his nose. "Do I sound like a man who dodges anything?"

A pause.

"No," Vivian said. "You sound like your father."

He didn't respond to that.

"I want this to go smoothly," she added. "Albert's daughter is attending. I don't need drama."

"Neither do I. But if she brings it, I won't pretend."

"Don't provoke her."

"I don't provoke," Alessandro said. "I react."

Then he hung up.

For a moment, he stood still.

Albert's daughter.

He hadn't met her. Hadn't cared to. Some plain little girl from a lower tax bracket. Spoiled by struggle, probably. Bitter. Sharp-tongued. One of those girls who'd resent his money and hate him for existing.

He was not in the mood for sentimental family games.

Still.

Sicily was a small price to pay for keeping the peace with Vivian. And who knew? Maybe the girl would be smart enough to stay out of his way.

He grabbed his coat and followed the others out.

The night was just beginning.

The private entrance of Club D'Argento gleamed under soft, amber lights. From the outside, it looked more like a luxury hotel than a place where champagne met silk and shadows. A pair of sharply dressed bouncers opened the doors before Alessandro even reached them.

"Mr. De'Luca," one of them greeted with a nod. "Executive lounge is ready."

Alessandro didn't reply-he simply walked through, his coat draped over his arm, suit immaculate despite the long day.

Inside, the club pulsed with low music and velvet-dark lighting. Crystal chandeliers cast warm halos over sculpted furniture, and the scent of cologne, expensive liquor, and faint rose filled the air.

He moved through it like it belonged to him.

Behind him, Marco and Luca peeled off toward the bar, already laughing about something crass. Alessandro ignored them, heading straight to the upper level where the velvet rope opened on sight.

The executive lounge was quieter, dimmer-smoke glass, leather booths, and tinted windows overlooking the main floor below. A waitress with long black hair and legs that never seemed to end met him at the stairs.

"Your usual?" she purred.

"Neat. No ice."

"Of course, Mr. De'Luca."

He slid into the booth, loosening his cuffs, the weight of the day easing from his shoulders.

Below, the first of the stage girls had begun her slow, practiced dance. He watched her without interest. It wasn't the show that drew him. It was the power. The knowledge that every man in this room, no matter how loud or rich, knew exactly who he was-and exactly where not to look.

Still, something buzzed under his skin tonight. Not restlessness. Not boredom.

Anticipation.

He checked his watch. Almost ten.

Outside, the line had started to curl around the block-new blood, desperate to be part of something they didn't understand. And somewhere in that line, two girls would walk past security with forged names and wide eyes, thinking they were stepping into a night of harmless thrills.

Not yet.

The bathroom mirror in Jenna's apartment was streaked with old makeup and bad decisions, but tonight it reflected two girls who barely recognized themselves.

Isabel leaned closer, adjusting the strap of her dark emerald green dress for the third time. Her curls were ironed flat and shiny, her eyeliner just a bit too sharp, her lips a deep red that made her look like someone she wasn't.

Someone dangerous.

"I look like I'm trying too hard," she muttered.

"You look like money," Jenna grinned, stuffing her lipstick into her tiny rhinestone clutch. "That's the point."

"I feel like I can't breathe."

"That's because we used double push-up tape. You'll survive."

Isabel exhaled shakily and stepped back from the mirror. Her heels clicked awkwardly on the tile, her legs unfamiliar beneath the short dress Jenna had begged her to wear.

They looked like girls in a music video. They felt like girls lying to themselves.

"You sure about this?" Isabel asked, voice low.

Jenna gave her a look. "Babe. We already spent two hours contouring your collarbones. There's no backing out now."

"I don't know how to dance on a pole."

"You don't have to know. You just need to look like you could."

Isabel tried to laugh. It came out tight.

Jenna softened. "Hey. Listen. We go in, we give a name, we stick together. We don't have to do anything you don't want to do. Promise."

Isabel nodded slowly. "Okay."

A knock sounded at the front door-Charlie, Jenna's cousin, who worked valet at the club and had the hookup for getting past security.

"Time to go, ladies," he called through the door.

Isabel grabbed her clutch with shaking fingers.

"Fake names?"

Jenna handed her a laminated card. "You're Belle. I'm Cassie. Don't forget."

Isabel stared at the name, trying to fit it on like an ill-fitting coat. Belle. Like a girl in a fairy tale.

They slid into Charlie's car, hearts pounding beneath satin and sequins. The ride to the club was a blur of neon signs, late-night traffic, and Isabel's stomach knotting tighter with every turn.

When they pulled up to the side entrance, Charlie turned around, serious now.

"Stick to the story. No real names, no real addresses. Smile, act like you've been here before. If anything feels weird, text me."

Jenna nodded. "We've got this."

Isabel swallowed hard. "Yeah. We do."

The bouncer outside barely looked at them before letting them in, thanks to Charlie's quiet word and a generous handshake. Inside, the air changed.

Warm. Velvet-slick. The smell of perfume and whiskey wrapped around Isabel like silk.

The lighting was low, gold and red, with shadows dancing across polished floors. Plush chairs curved like whispers around private booths. Women in lingerie and stiletto heels moved like water across the room, confident and graceful.

Isabel couldn't move.

Jenna grabbed her hand. "Don't freeze now."

They headed toward the back, where a woman with a headset and a clipboard checked their names.

"Belle and Cassie," Jenna said smoothly, her voice an octave lower. "We're filling in for Tia."

The woman didn't blink. "You're late. Dressing room's that way. You're up after Misty."

They made it.

Isabel felt her knees wobble. She was here. She'd stepped into the lie-and no one had stopped her.

"Come on," Jenna whispered. "Let's get changed."

The dressing room smelled like coconut oil, body spray, and heat. Glitter was everywhere-on counters, carpets, skin. A girl with platinum-blonde hair was arguing with someone over missing heels. Another dabbed concealer onto a bruise on her thigh, unfazed by the chaos.

Jenna handed Isabel a sheer robe and whispered, "Put it on. Trust me, you're going to look like a goddess."

Isabel obeyed, fumbling out of her jacket and slipping into the robe. It draped over her curves like liquid, barely opaque, the hem brushing her thighs.

She caught her reflection in the mirror-and froze.

For a moment, she didn't see herself. Not the girl scraping dishes after midnight, not the one holding back tears in the freezer room so her manager wouldn't see. She saw Belle.

Belle had fire in her eyes. She didn't beg for time off or chase scholarships. She didn't need saving.

"You look... unreal," Jenna said softly, almost surprised.

The clipboard woman stuck her head into the room. "Cassie, you're up next. Belle, you're after her. You've got two minutes."

Jenna squeezed her hand. "Breathe. Just sway. Feel the music. You don't have to strip, okay? Just dance."

Isabel nodded like her head was the only part of her that still worked.

She waited backstage, peeking out through the curtain. The stage glowed with crimson light, a polished pole gleaming in the center. Down below, tables buzzed with low conversation and murmured laughter, mostly men in designer suits or loosened ties, smoke curling from cigars and glasses of whiskey in hand.

And above them all, a private balcony with shadowed booths and frosted glass.

Isabel couldn't see who was up there-but she felt the weight of someone watching.

"Cassie" stepped onto the stage with a toss of her curls and the kind of smile Isabel couldn't fake. Music swelled, low and bass-heavy, and Jenna spun effortlessly around the pole before sinking into a smooth drop, all hips and heat.

The crowd responded. Applause, some cheers. Money folded discreetly, slid along the stage.

Isabel's stomach flipped. Her throat was dry.

Then-

"Belle. You're on," someone whispered.

She stepped forward. The lights hit her like a baptism. Warm, blinding, dizzying.

The beat dropped.

She walked slowly to the center, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor, every nerve in her body screaming run. But her legs moved. Her hips followed. She grabbed the pole-not gracefully, but not like a rookie either-and spun, letting her body turn, twist, follow instinct instead of fear.

And when her robe slipped off one shoulder, revealing the glitter of her dress beneath, the crowd murmured.

It wasn't shame that pulsed through her.

It was power.

Men leaned forward. Eyes locked onto her. Not just for how she looked, but how she moved. Her hands, her breath, the line of her neck as she tilted her chin and turned her back to them.

She wasn't invisible anymore.

She was everything.

The lights changed-blue now, softening the edges. Her pulse calmed. Her movements grew bolder. She slid down the pole, legs folding under her, then rose again with a sway of hips that had never moved like that before.

The song ended. She stepped back into the shadows, chest heaving.

Jenna was waiting, grinning wide.

"You killed it," she whispered.

Isabel wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or scream.

Instead, she smiled-because for the first time in a long while, something inside her felt awake.

-----

From the upper balcony, the club looked like a dream.

Low lights glinted off crystal glasses, smoke curled in lazy spirals, and laughter floated like silk over the hum of music and desire. It was a playground for men who ruled empires during the day and sought shadows at night.

Alessandro De'Luca sat with a glass of neat scotch in one hand, elbow draped over the velvet booth behind him. His tailored navy suit still looked untouched after a fourteen-hour day. Around him, two business partners chatted idly, their post-deal high still buzzing.

"...thirty million in contracts signed before lunch. That deserves celebration," one of them said, gesturing toward the stage.

"Plenty to celebrate," Alessandro said without interest.

Until he saw her.

She had just stepped out onto the stage-slender, uncertain at first, her body wrapped in light the way a secret wears silence. He couldn't see her face clearly through the shadowed edge of her hair. But something in the way she moved-

Not polished. Not like the others. This one wasn't rehearsed.

She was raw.

She reached for the pole, not like it was a prop, but like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

And then-

Her shoulder slipped free of a sheer robe.

His throat tightened.

She spun slowly, one hand gripping the metal, her body tilting into the motion with tentative grace. It wasn't sex she radiated. It was something far more dangerous.

Hunger.

Desperation.

Electric vulnerability wrapped in curves and lipstick.

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. One of his partners chuckled beside him.

"Which one caught your eye this time?"

Alessandro didn't answer.

The girl dropped low, arching up with a movement so natural, so filled with something real, it cut through the haze of liquor and low light like a blade. He watched her finish with a slow turn, her head dipping as if she could hear the beat inside her own skin.

No name. No introduction.

But she didn't need one.

He took one last sip of his drink and set the glass down.

Then he turned to the waiter who had just passed behind him. "The girl on stage."

The waiter blinked. "Sir?"

"The last one. Belle." Alessandro's voice was cool, commanding, and quiet. "Bring her to me."