"Huh?" I blink, staring at him, confused.

"You need a stage name," Dante says flatly. "Using your real name is boring-and bad for business."

"It is," Andrea agrees, sliding onto the edge of the desk like she owns it.

"My name's Whiplash. Don't ask why-it's a long story," she says with a smirk. "But every costume I wear ties into it. This," she gestures down at herself, "is all part of the brand."

I hadn't even realized she was in costume until now. I glance again. Chains hang from her outfit, a leather holster wraps one thigh, and a coiled whip peeks out like a warning.

"You done ogling?" she snaps, rolling her eyes. "We need to name you."

"Diamond," Dante says suddenly. His eyes are locked on me like I'm a puzzle he just solved. "We don't get virgins here. Diamonds are rare."

"Oh, boss," Andrea grins, practically squealing. "You're a genius. I know just what she should wear."

She bolts from the room. Dante and I exchange a look.

A moment later, she's back-arms full. Silver lingerie, lace knee-highs, rhinestone stilettos, and a platinum wig. She tosses them onto the desk.

"Strip," she says casually.

Before I can react, she's already undressing me like it's no big deal. I stand stiffly while she dresses me like a doll. The outfit barely covers anything. My cleavage is spilling over, my thighs exposed.

"Now, makeup," Andrea mutters, brushing shimmering powders and highlighters across my face. She moves fast-focused. Efficient.

When she steps back, I barely recognize the reflection in the mirror. Glittery lids. Glossed lips. Jewels like stars across my cheekbones. I look... like someone else.

Andrea smacks my ass. I yelp.

"What was that for?"

She shrugs. "Get used to it. If it's not on display, you're not making money."

I open my mouth to respond but stop. She's right. This is what I signed up for. This is my life now.

"Flexibility check," she says, guiding me to a pole I hadn't noticed until now. "Can you do a mid-split and twerk?"

I nod, showing her what I remember from watching music videos in foster homes.

Andrea whistles. "Damn. Natural."

She pulls out her phone. "Let's take it up a notch."

We go through a whirlwind of moves: a pirouette, the fireman spin, a pole sit, then something called the Martini-not the drink. My body aches, sweat dripping under the AC. But I push through. I have to.

Andrea crushes me into a hug. "Look at you. My baby's all grown up."

"It's literally been two hours since the park," I say, laughing softly.

"Still feels like yesterday," she says, dramatically fanning her eyes.

I roll mine. We both laugh. For a second, it feels normal.

Then Dante's voice slices through the room like a blade.

"Places, everyone! Forty minutes to showtime. Get makeup ready and bodies moving!"

He claps, disappearing into the hallway-only to return seconds later with a mic to shout it again.

Andrea grabs my wrist. "Time to meet the others."

We walk down a dim hallway. At the end is a door with a faded poster. Dante stands on it, giving a thumbs-up in front of a building that looks like a condemned motel.

"He built this?" I whisper.

Andrea nods. "From nothing. If he could do it... maybe you can too."

She stops at the door, turning serious. "Listen. Some girls in here are snakes. Don't let them get to you. You don't owe anyone your backstory. Stick with the ones who treat you right. And if anyone talks shit... don't let it slide."

I nod slowly. "Got it."

She opens the door.

A blast of perfume, booze, sweat, and smoke floods my senses. The chatter dies instantly.

Dozens of girls turn to stare.

"Oh hey," a girl with a thick Southern drawl grins, sizing me up. "Who ya with?"

Andrea opens her mouth, but I cut her off.

"I'm Estelle," I say quickly, giving Andrea a quick glance. She nods in approval.

The Southern girl whistles. "Ain't you a pretty little thing. I'm Darcy-but most call me Cowgirl."

I glance at her outfit. Hat. Boots. Fringe. The name fits. Still, the way she giggles... makes me wonder if there's more to it.

"What do they call you, sugar?"

I smile. "Diamond."

A small chorus of "ouuu" echoes from nearby. Girls gather around, some smiling, others watching from the edges with unreadable expressions.

"You're gorgeous," says one in a nurse costume, playing with my hair.

"She's straight, Nancy," Andrea teases.

"Doesn't matter," Nancy replies with a wink.

"Here," Darcy says, offering me silver contacts. "For the look."

She helps me put them in while Andrea retouches my face.

"I thought I was already done," I murmur.

"I gave you soft makeup earlier. This? This is the final boss version. You're about to make your debut," Andrea whispers.

I nod. I can't tell if I'm scared or excited.

"Five minutes to showtime, girls!" Dante bellows from down the hall. "Get ready to make them pay!"

Andrea returns with a glass of something amber. "Liquid courage."

I down it in one gulp.

"Damn. That's what I like to see," she laughs, grabbing my hand.

We head toward the glowing lights of the main stage.

My heart is pounding.

The floor hums beneath my heels.

And then-

"Hey! That's my wig!"

A voice rings out behind me, sharp and pissed.

I turn to find a tall woman storming toward us-heels clicking, eyes burning.

Andrea's smile drops.

"Shit," she mutters.

"Hey! That's my wig!"

The voice slices through the air like a knife. Loud. Sharp. Drenched in venom.

Andrea's hand tightens on mine. "Shit," she mutters under her breath.

I turn around just in time to see the woman storming toward us. She's tall. Legs for days. High cheekbones that could cut glass. Her red wig swings wildly with every furious step.

"Whiplash," she spits, eyes zeroing in on Andrea like she wants to rip her apart. "You gave her my wig?"

Andrea barely blinks. "Relax, Sapphire. You left it in the prop bin for a week."

"It was in my drawer yesterday. I was saving it for tonight. The platinum look? That's my signature."

"She's new," Andrea shrugs. "She needed something that popped."

Sapphire's gaze snaps to me. She looks me over-head to toe-like I'm a problem she needs to eliminate. "So this is the little charity case."

I stiffen. My spine locks.

Andrea steps in before I can speak. "Don't start."

"Start what?" Sapphire says, her voice laced with mock sweetness. "I'm just surprised. Boss never lets virgins onstage. Let alone handpicked and dressed up like a goddamn snow queen."

"She's got the body and the moves," Andrea says flatly.

"Does she have the stamina? The guts?" Sapphire scoffs. "This place isn't a fairy tale. The customers don't care if you sparkle. They want a show. They want submission. And if she can't deliver, she'll be chewed up and tossed out like the rest."

I open my mouth, but Sapphire is already gone-storming past us toward the dressing tables like she owns the whole damn club.

Andrea exhales hard. "Ignore her. She's territorial. You'll earn your place."

"I thought we all worked together."

Andrea barks a short laugh. "Sweetheart, this isn't a sisterhood. It's a jungle in fishnets."

Someone whistles from across the room. "Two minutes!"

She grabs my wrist again, yanking me away from the confrontation and toward the velvet curtain separating backstage from the club floor.

As we pass by other girls adjusting pasties and fluffing wigs, I feel the burn of eyes on me. Some curious. Some calculating. Others already writing me off.

Andrea doesn't slow down. "Listen up. Tonight, you're not Estelle. You're not a girl with a past or pain. You're Diamond. You shine. You seduce. You survive."

We stop just behind the curtain. Music thumps on the other side. A slow, pulsing beat. The sound of bills being slapped on skin.

Andrea leans in, her voice low. "Don't think. Just move. I'll be on next. I'll watch your set."

"What if I freeze?" I whisper.

"Then you fake it better than anyone else in the room." She gives my hand a squeeze. "You've got this."

And then I'm alone.

The emcee's voice booms through the speaker.

"Gentlemen-and ladies-get ready for a brand new diamond to light up your night. She's fresh, she's fine, and she's all yours. Put your hands together for... Diamond!"

My chest tightens. My legs almost betray me. But I step forward.

The lights blind me. Blue and silver. Glitter like falling stars.

I grip the pole at center stage. My body moves before my mind can argue. A spin. A drop. A mid-split and bounce just like Andrea taught me. The music wraps around me like armor.

For a minute, I'm not Estelle.

I'm not the girl from too many foster homes.

I'm not the girl with a past she can't speak of.

I'm Diamond. Dangerous. Desired. Untouchable.

I swing, stretch, dip low. I feel eyes on me-hot and heavy. I hear whoops and laughter. Bills flutter through the air like confetti.

The confidence hits me in waves. One move at a time.

When I slide down into a slow grind, a man near the edge of the stage leans forward and grins at me with wolfish eyes. His smile is too wide. His breath smells like liquor and something sour.

"Let me break that pretty little body in," he slurs, stuffing cash into my thigh strap.

I freeze for half a second. Long enough to feel the sting of old memories clawing up my throat. Hands. Shadows. A locked room.

But I shake it off. I drop into a spin and land hard-earning a cheer from another table.

I own this. I own this.

When the song ends, I'm panting-sweaty but glowing. Glitter clings to my skin like armor.

I stumble offstage, heart racing.

Andrea's waiting, a slow grin pulling at her lips. "Told you you'd shine."

My whole body trembles. "Did I look-?"

"Like you belonged." She pulls me into a hug. "Proud of you."

Before I can say anything back, I hear the girls whispering near the mirrors.

"Not bad for a newbie."

"Yeah, but let's see how long she lasts."

"Sapphire's not gonna let this go."

Andrea hears it too. Her expression tightens.

We head back toward the dressing room. I wipe glitter off my chest, still catching my breath.

Darcy meets us halfway with two drinks. "Baby girl! You were fire up there."

"Thanks," I say, downing the drink without asking what's in it. My throat burns.

"You earned that. But watch your back," Darcy says, her tone dropping. "Sapphire's already talking shit in the smoking lounge. Said you're stealing her clients."

"I didn't even talk to anyone," I mutter.

"Doesn't matter," Andrea says. "You showed up and stole attention. That's enough."

I lean against the wall, head pounding. The adrenaline's fading. Reality's creeping in again.

"Do they all hate the new girl this much?" I ask quietly.

Andrea sighs. "It's not hate. It's fear. They've clawed their way up, and you're a threat now. Pretty. Young. Mysterious."

"I'm not mysterious."

"You are when no one knows what hell you crawled out of."

I go quiet.

The hallway feels smaller now. Claustrophobic. Like the air's thicker.

Darcy lights a cigarette and offers one to Andrea. "You gonna tell her?"

Andrea raises an eyebrow. "Tell me what?"

"That Sapphire's ex is watching from VIP. The one she flipped out over last month."

Andrea curses. "Are you serious?"

Darcy nods. "He asked for her number. The new girl. Not Sapphire."

My stomach drops. "He didn't even talk to me."

Andrea's face darkens. "He doesn't have to. All it takes is one glance. Sapphire's not gonna let this slide."

I don't know what to say. I'm still catching up.

"You're in now," Darcy says. "Welcome to the war zone, sugar."

I laugh, but there's no humor in it.

Before I can respond, Sapphire appears at the end of the hallway.

She's changed into a new outfit-tight black latex and boots that scream power. Her eyes lock on mine. Cold. Calculating.

She smiles.

It's not friendly.

And it's not fake.

It's a warning.

The nights were blending together. Darkness felt like the only thing that had ever existed, and I was just some moving part inside it-dancing, smiling, pretending. Sometimes I wondered if I'd always been here, in the stale perfume haze of Club Paradise, glitter stuck to my thighs and judgment in the eyes of men who bought me with pocket change and promises they never kept.

Andrea said it'd get easier. Said once I stopped trying to find a way out, I'd finally be free. I wasn't sure what kind of freedom she meant-maybe the kind that came with numbness, the kind that made you untouchable because there was nothing left to ruin.

My dressing room was a broken mirror and a ripped curtain away from collapsing. The girls fought over chairs like starving dogs. Powder floated in the air like fairy dust on crack. Lips moved constantly-trash talk, secrets, deals, and prayers.

I avoided most of them.

Except Andrea.

She didn't ask why I was always too quiet or why I flinched when someone raised their voice. She just handed me foundation when I ran out and zipped up my corset when my fingers shook too hard to do it myself.

"You're learning, baby," she said one night, smearing red across my lips. "You don't cry on the floor. Cry later in the shower. Then come back and do it again."

I nodded.

That night, I wore the silver wig.

Andrea said it gave me mystery. Said I looked like a ghost someone would want to haunt them. I didn't tell her how right she was-how I already felt dead and how the wig only made it easier to float.

I danced for a man who smelled like coins. His breath was hot and wet when he spoke-every word like a price tag.

"You got eyes like a cat," he said, touching the edge of my hip with one thick finger. "Bet you land on your feet, even if you fall from high."

He tipped well. I let him think he was special.

When he left, Andrea found me backstage, peeling glitter from my chest.

"Word of advice," she said, lighting a cigarette. "Don't let the regulars fall in love. And don't fall for them either."

"I'm not stupid."

"Didn't say you were. Just said you're new."

We stood in silence for a bit, the throb of bass vibrating through the walls. Someone screamed in the back-either from pleasure or pain - it was hard to tell anymore. One of the bouncers dragged out a drunk girl by her hair. Nobody flinched.

Andrea blew smoke toward the ceiling. "They don't tell you about this part when they recruit you. They say you'll make fast money. Look pretty. Get worshipped. But it's a lie."

I waited.

"They don't tell you what happens when you're no longer new. When you age out. When your face loses its freshness. They don't tell you what it costs to stay desirable."

I didn't ask what she meant. I already knew. I saw it in the older girls-the ones with stitched lips and glassy eyes. Some of them stayed too long. Some of them vanished.

It was after midnight when Dante summoned me.

He didn't knock. Just stood in the hallway, arms crossed like a god of ruined things.

"Estelle. Office. Now."

Andrea gave me a quick look-a flash of something I couldn't place. Worry? Pity?

I followed him past the VIP room, past the girls grinding in dim corners, past the screaming bathrooms. The club's heartbeat thumped against my ears, fast and loud. It reminded me of running. Of being chased.

Dante's office was cold and smelled like whiskey and fake leather. He sat behind the desk like a king pretending to be bored.

He poured himself a drink. Didn't offer me one.

"You've been doing well," he said, sipping slow. "Clients ask for the girl with the silver wig. You're building a brand. That's good."

I said nothing.

He smiled. It never reached his eyes. "But you've got competition."

He opened a drawer and pulled out a photo. Threw it across the desk.

"This is Luana. She's new. Came from Brazil. Speaks little English, but she can dance. Real natural."

I looked at the photo. A girl with deep brown eyes and a tiger tattoo on her thigh. She looked hungry. Not for food for survival.

"She'll be your floor partner tomorrow," Dante said. "Learn to work together. Or don't. Just make me money."

I nodded and left.

Andrea was waiting by my locker.

"So, he gave you Luana," she said, chewing gum. "Figures. She's hot, dumb, and desperate. Perfect combination."

"Do I need to be worried?"

"No. Just don't let her outshine you. Smile more. Laugh at their jokes. Touch their knees. That's what gets them paying."

"I don't want to touch anyone."

Andrea snorted. "Then you're in the wrong place, baby."

The next night, Luana danced like fire. She had no rhythm, but the men didn't care. She laughed loudly, moaned when they touched her, and slid between legs like she was born for it. She was chaos wrapped in perfume.

I hated how she made it look easy.

She came to me during break, sweat shining on her chest.

"You Estelle?" she asked, voice thick with accent.

"Yeah."

"You look sad. Are you okay?"

I nodded. "Fine."

She tilted her head. "No one here is fine."

Then she walked away.

Later, in the locker room, I caught her crying.

She had her head pressed to the wall, shoulders shaking. I didn't say anything, just walked past her. I didn't want to know her story. Didn't want to carry more pain than I already had.

But I thought about her on stage. About how she danced like someone trying to forget they had a soul.

Maybe we weren't so different.

That night, as I walked home, my heels clicking against the wet pavement, I felt it again-that tight, invisible cord pulling at my chest. I was changing. Hardening.

Every night took something from me and replaced it with steel.

But even steel rusts.

When I got home, I scrubbed my skin raw. The hot water stung, but it made me feel real. I looked in the mirror and saw someone else. The silver wig lay on the sink, wet and tangled.

I picked it up.

Put it on.

Stared.

Who was I becoming?

Someone who could lie with a smile. Someone who could strip with grace and silence. Someone who knew how to take pain and turn it into profit.

I looked into my own eyes and whispered, "Don't fall apart. Not yet."

Because I knew something was coming. Something worse than what I'd already seen.

And I needed to be ready.