Miranda slammed the door to the apartment so hard the cheap frame rattled. "Dad, what the hell did you do this time?" She dropped her bag on the floor, ignoring the takeout containers spilling out from last night's shift. Her father sat at the kitchen table, head in his hands, a half-empty beer bottle sweating rings onto the wood.
He looked up, eyes red and guilty. "It's not a big deal, Mira. Just a little loan. Victor said he'd spot me until payday."
"Victor?" Her voice shot up, sharp enough to cut glass. She crossed the small room in two steps, yanking the bottle from his grip. "The same Victor who showed up here last year with a baseball bat? The one I had to call the cops on? You're borrowing from him again?"
Her father shrugged, avoiding her stare. "He forgave that. Said it was water under the bridge. I needed the cash for Ethan's school stuff."
"Bullshit." Miranda leaned against the counter, her arms crossed tight over her chest. She was still in her café uniform, black pants, white shirt stained with coffee grounds from the morning rush. Her feet ached from standing all day, and she had another shift at the club tonight. No time for this crap.
"Ethan's tuition is paid. I handled it last month. What did you really blow it on? Another poker game? Slots?"
He mumbled something about a sure thing at the casino. She didn't need details; it was always the same story. Her mom had bailed years ago, chasing some Hollywood dream that turned into a nightmare. Left Miranda, at sixteen, to pick up the pieces. Now, at twenty-two, she was still doing it. Three jobs, no sleep, and a brother who deserved better than this mess.
"Get out," she said, pointing to the door. "Go crash at a friend's. I can't deal with you right now."
He stood up slow, like his bones hurt. "Come on, kid. We're family."
"Family doesn't steal from each other." She said through gritted teeth.
She turned away, grabbing her phone from her bag. There was a text from Ethan: Home late, studying at library. Love you. At least one of them had a shot at normal.
Her father shuffled out, muttering apologies she didn't believe. The door clicked shut, and the apartment went quiet. Miranda sank into a chair, rubbing her temples. Rent was due in a week, and after paying off the last collector, her savings were down to nothing. She opened her laptop on the table, her one decent possession, bought secondhand for her architecture classes. The screen lit up with emails. Junk, bills, and then one that caught her eye: Interview Confirmation - Junior Architect Position, Apex Designs, Dubai.
Her heart skipped. She'd applied on a whim last month, after scrolling job boards late at night. The posting promised a starting salary that could change everything, enough to get Ethan through college, maybe even move them to a better place.
The emails back and forth had seemed real: questions about her portfolio, a video call with a recruiter who smiled too much but asked the right things. They wanted her there next week for in-person talks.
She stared at the flight details they'd attached. Paid for. Visa paperwork included.
It felt too good, but she'd checked the company's website, flashy projects, skyscrapers that twisted like art. Her degree from the local community college wasn't fancy, but her designs had gotten decent grades. Why not her?
A knock at the door pulled her back. She froze. Collectors didn't knock polite. She peeked through the peephole, nobody. Just a shadow moving away down the hall. Probably nothing. She shook it off and replied to the email: Confirmed. See you soon.
By evening, she was at the club, Neon Pulse, a dive on the edge of Seattle where the lights were dim and the music thumped hard enough to drown thoughts. She changed in the back room, slipping into a short black dress that hugged her curves, heels that made her legs look endless. Makeup: red lips, smoky eyes. The mask she wore here was different from the café, confident, untouchable. Guys paid for the fantasy, and she delivered just enough to keep tips coming without crossing her lines.
Her first set on stage went smooth. She moved to the beat, letting the rhythm take over. No thinking about Dad or debts. Just the cash stuffed into her garter. Off stage, she worked the floor, chatting up regulars. One guy, mid-thirties, suit rumpled from a long day, bought her a drink she pretended to sip.
"You're new here?" he asked, leaning in close. His cologne was sharp, expensive.
"Not really." She smiled, tilting her head. "What brings you in tonight?"
"Work stress. You?"
She laughed light. "Same." Her hand brushed his arm, calculated, nothing more. But he was cute in a tired way, with dark hair and a jaw that could cut. Not her type, but flirting paid bills.
They talked for a bit, bull about the rain outside, his job in sales. He slipped her a fifty for nothing but company. When he asked for a private dance, she led him to a booth in the back. The curtain closed, and the music softened. She straddled his lap, rolling her hips slow, feeling his hands on her waist. Spicy, yeah, but controlled. She leaned in, breath on his neck. "You like that?"
His grip tightened. "God, yes." He pulled her closer, lips brushing her ear. "What's your real name?"
"Doesn't matter." She ground against him, heat building despite herself. It had been months since she'd let anyone close, too busy surviving. But his touch sent a spark, reminding her she was still alive under the armor.
He tipped her another hundred, whispering he'd come back for more. She finished the dance, collected her cash, and slipped out. Back at the bar, she caught her breath. Romance? Ha. This was as close as she got, quick highs, no strings.
Her phone buzzed in her locker during break. Another email from Apex: All set for your arrival. A driver will meet you at the airport. Excitement mixed with nerves. This could be it, the out she'd dreamed of.
The night dragged on. More dances, more tips. By closing, her feet were killing her, but her pocket was full. She changed back into jeans and a hoodie, grabbed her bag, and headed out the back door into the alley. Rain slicked the pavement, streetlights buzzing overhead.
Footsteps echoed behind her. She spun, hand in her pocket gripping pepper spray. A man stepped from the shadows, stocky, balding, face she knew too well.
"Victor," she said, voice steady even as her stomach dropped. "What do you want?"
He smiled, teeth yellow under the light. "Just checking on an old friend. Heard your dad's been borrowing again."
"I paid you last time. We're square."
He stepped closer. "Not quite. But don't worry, Miranda. I've got a way for you to make it right. A real opportunity."
She backed up a step. "I don't need your help."
His laugh was low, chilling. "Oh, you will. See you soon." He melted back into the dark, leaving her alone with the rain. Her heart pounded. What did he mean? She hurried to her car, locking the doors fast. The job in Dubai couldn't come soon enough.
The next few days blurred. She packed light, clothes, her laptop, a few sketches from school. Told Ethan it was a short trip, promised to call. He hugged her tight at the airport. "Be safe, sis."
The flight was long, and was cramped. Due to the section she was provided. She dozed fitfully, dreaming of blueprints and buildings that didn't crumble. When the plane touched down in Dubai, heat hit her like a wall. She grabbed her bag, went through customs smooth. The visa scanned fine. Outside, a sign with her name: Miranda Cole.
The driver was polite and silent. He loaded her stuff and drove into the city skyscrapers gleaming, everything gold and glass. Her hotel? No, he said. Straight to the office for orientation.
But the building they pulled up to wasn't an office. It was a club Obsidian, neon sign flickering even in daylight. Two men waited at the door, suits crisp.
"Miss Cole?" one asked, holding out a hand for her passport.
"Yeah. What's going on? This isn't Apex."
He smiled thin. "Change of plans. Come inside."
Her gut twisted. She hesitated, but they flanked her, guiding her in. The door shut behind, locking with a click. Inside, dim lights, velvet couches, girls in dresses like the ones she wore back home. Victor stepped from a side room, grinning wide.
"Welcome to your new job, Miranda. Told you I'd see you soon." He said, with a smirk which refused to leave his face since he spotted her coming in.
Her blood ran cold. How? The emails, the interviews, it was all him. She lunged for the door, but hands grabbed her arms, holding tight.
"Let me go!" she yelled, struggling.
Victor's laugh echoed. "Not a chance. We've got big plans for you."
And just like that, the world she'd run from caught up, harder, meaner, with no way out in sight.
But as they dragged her deeper into the club, a shadow moved in the corner. Someone watching, phone in hand. She caught a glimpse, young woman, blonde hair, wide eyes. Then gone.
Who was that? And why did she look scared?