"What?" Ivy's pulse quickened. She leaned over, her heart pounding as Trish held up the photographs.
The color drained from her face. The first picture hit her like a punch—her own body, moving under the stage lights at Commissioned. The pole gleamed, her masked face half-turned toward the crowd. The next image—God, the next image—was of her in the dressing room, mask off, mid-laugh.
Her name might as well have been printed across the bottom.
"Oh my God," she whispered, her hands trembling as she took the pictures. "This must be Tom!"
"Does Tom need five hundred thousand dollars, or has he officially lost his damn mind?" Trish hissed, unfolding a small note that had been stuck to one of the photographs. Pay five hundred thousand dollars in five days or these pictures hit the press.
