●Gem●
The lights dimmed further as the first beats of Midnight Temptation rolled through the speakers. I stepped onto the stage, letting the pole cool beneath my fingers, feeling the smooth metal press into my palms as my heels clicked against the platform.
I started slow, letting the music guide me, arching my back, rolling my hips with a feline ease that made the men in the front row sit straighter. I let my long black hair cascade down my shoulders, brushing my bare back as I spun, a controlled flick that sent a few strands grazing my own cheek.
My eyes scanned the crowd, catching the ones who thought they could own a glance. I winked at one, a slight curl of my lips, and he threw bills onto the stage like he'd just discovered heaven.
Every step, every twist, every sway of my body was calculated. I controlled the room without touching anyone, without giving up a single inch of dominance. My chest rose and fell with the beat, my legs flexing against the pole, my hands teasing the metal while my eyes dared the men to follow me, to try, to fail.
I could feel the money raining around me, a reminder that even in a world designed to degrade, I was the one holding the cards.
The dance moved on, each twist, each sway, each roll of my hips pulling more bills onto the stage. Both the men amd women cheered and threw cash like it was falling from the sky, but it was always a reminder of how little of it we actually saw. A thousand-dollar stack could mean a few measly bills in our hands, and yet we danced anyway, because survival demanded it.
I stepped onto a table, moving closer to a blond girl around my age who had already splashed a small fortune across the stage. I cupped her chin gently, pulling her closer so our lips nearly touched. I whispered something just barely audible, letting her feel the intimacy of a moment that meant nothing beyond the stage. She blinked, impressed, and I slid back to the platform, keeping the energy flowing.
"I am beginning to doubt my sexuality now," I heard her say to her friend.
More men were spending, drooling over the girls, and it still baffled me how so many of these maniacs had wedding rings on their fingers. I made a mental note of which ones were safe to ignore and which ones deserved a closer eye.
My gaze fell on one of the men who had been watching me since I first stepped onto the stage. Middle-aged, with wavy brown hair, and just like most of the others, he hadn't bothered to take off his wedding ring before stepping into this den of desperation and lust.
He leaned slightly toward Marie, the woman in charge of us girls, whispering something into her ear. I didn't need to hear the words to know he was asking for me. The way he looked at me gave it away. There was intent behind his stare, and I didn't like being sized up like that.
"Gem!" Marie's sharp voice cut through the music. I rolled my eyes but kept moving, letting the bass carry me as I flicked my hair over my shoulder.
"You're done here. Exclusive VIP lounge room 303. Now." Her glare could have cut through steel.
I smirked, letting my hips sway one last time for the crowd before stepping down from the stage. "Finally. I was beginning to think you'd let me dance until my legs fell off."
"Don't get smart. Move," she snapped, gesturing toward the path that led to the private rooms.
I stepped up to room 303, my heels clicking softly against the hallway floor, and knocked once. The door swung open almost immediately.
He was there, tall, broad, the coat giving him the air of a family man. But as he stepped inside, he shed the illusion, draping the coat over the arm of the chair before turning toward the couch. I followed his eyes, but my own attention snagged on his phone, buzzing insistently on the cushion as he moved towards it.
He reached to pick it up, flipping it shut with a faint click, silencing the call without a glance at the screen. My lips pressed together.
"Gem," he said, testing my stage name as his gaze flicked across my chest, his grey eyes scanning with an almost predatory calm.
I stayed still, letting him settle himself on the couch while I took a slow, deliberate step forward. My heels clicked again, echoing slightly in the quiet room. He poured two glasses, the liquid catching the dim light, and my stomach twisted. Fuck. I was supposed to pour those myself so I could drug him.
****
This man was careless. As I moved to sit across from him, I noticed his social ID slipping from the coat draped on the couch beside him. I stood up again, pretending to adjust myself, and let my eyes skim over the card just long enough to read the name.
Anthony Grealish.
I knew that name. It was popular, tied to a fashion brand that had made its owners millionaires. The company carried his name, but from what little I knew, his wife was the one who truly pulled the strings.
It turned out I did not need to drug him at all. Blackmail would be easier. And I was just as good at that as I was at everything else.