The Billionaires Dancer

I know how to make men bleed without even having to touch them. It’s as if the stage is a battlefield, the pole my spear, and every step I take, every slow, deliberate sway of my hips and arch of my back, is a silent war cry. The room pulses with low music, thick with cigar smoke and the unmistakable stench of superiority. I hate this place. The club, as usual, is full of men who think they can own me for the night. But I belong to no one. That’s what I like to tell myself anyway. Not the leering strangers. And especially not the man perched right across from me at the bar, watching me like I’m an object carved out of his own rib. Roman Rivera. My savior and my damnation all in one. I feel his eyes heavy on me as I move, dark and focused, possessive in a way that never asks permission. That’s the thing about Roman—he never needs to. Since the day he found me bruised and bloodied with nowhere to go, I’ve known, deep in my bones, that this man is no good. In the darkness of that alleyway over two years ago, clad in Armani and mischief, Roman picked me up and nursed me back to health. He rescued me when I thought I had lost it all, and all he asked in return was that I please him. That I obey. So I do. I keep my face set with unabashed desire, my movements fluid, my body flexible. I need to look like I enjoy this—getting off on the idea of being watched and lusted after—but in reality, my mind is anywhere but here. This is nothing but an act to me. Swift and elegant, I swing myself up the pole with my left arm and hook my leg around it to keep myself up. I spin in a slow circle, then use my free hand to trace a pathway from the center of my unclothed chest down to the hem of my neon bikini bottoms. Fuck, my n*****s are cold. Then, just like Monica helped me rehearse, I tip my head back and spin around once more, thrusting my p***y into the pole and grinding deeper and deeper. And as I part my lips into a sensual moan, money rains. It’s moves like this that make me Euphoria’s best stripper. Moves like this that come with tips big enough to pay off my debt quicker. From catcalls to hundred-dollar bills being thrown in my face and stuffed into my panties, there is a strange familiarity in this little performance I’ve perfected over the years. Dismounting the pole, I face away from the audience and sway my hips, slow and sensual. The crowd only gets louder. And when I turn around, I see a satisfied grin on Roman’s face. He likes my performance. I’ve made him some good money tonight. Smiling wide and plastic, I wave at my audience of s**t-eating admirers and think to myself—if only they knew how badly I want to set them all on fire. But they don’t. And I never will. So I keep dancing. I’ve been trained for this. Trained to make them want, make them beg, make them need. And I’m damn good at it. Then, the sound of a chair scraping against the marble tiles catches my attention. I turn my head slightly, expecting to be met with the face of just another stranger, but instead, I do a double take as I lock eyes with a beautiful ghost. A wave of dizziness washes over me as my face blanches. Yet, even in my current state, there are three things I know about this man: One, even as he stands in the shadows, his energy takes up all the space in the room. Two, his parents’ chromosomes mixed wonderfully well. And three, without a doubt, this beautiful ghost isn’t a ghost at all. He is flesh and blood, and time has only sharpened his edges. He shouldn’t be here. He can’t be real. I blink once. Twice. He doesn’t go away. Damon Baas. The air feels too thick, pressing against my throat. He disappeared from my life like a breath stolen by the night—eleven years of nothing. Not a word, not a whisper. And now, he’s standing here, his suit tailored to perfection, his presence tainting the atmosphere of Euphoria. My body forgets the choreography as soon as we lock eyes. And for the first time in years, I falter on stage. I have no control over my own performance, and my limbs feel like stone as I fumble over my steps, trying to gather myself. I become harshly aware of how naked I am in nothing but neon pink bikini bottoms and six-inch heels, how frizzy my jet-black curls have gotten since I got on stage, how flushed I feel since I saw him. God, it’s like a furnace in here now. I am a deer caught in headlights, and he senses it. He always has a sixth sense when it comes to me. Damon weaves his way through the club without breaking eye contact, and he doesn’t stop moving until he’s at the frontline of my stage. My breath hitches, my chest tightening with something raw and violent. Damon’s gaze locks onto mine, and in that moment, the club around us ceases to exist. But Roman sees it. Of course, he sees it. I barely have time to react before Roman rises from his seat, his glass of whiskey set down with deliberate care. He moves through the club with the kind of authority that makes men step aside without question. Damon doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. If anything, he looks amused as Roman approaches. The tension between them crackles like a live wire. I know what Roman is capable of. He isn’t just a businessman—he’s the kind of man whose name makes people lower their voices. The kind of man who doesn’t tolerate threats to what’s his. Roman is a thug. But Damon? Damon already walked away from me once. Who knows what he’s capable of now? Yet, when he finally speaks, his gaze now focused on Roman, his voice is steel wrapped in velvet. “I’ll take a private dance,” Damon says, his eyes never leaving mine. “With her.” I stop dancing altogether. My hands are trembling now and my heart feels as though it’s ready to leap out of my chest. Roman forces a smile—slow and dangerous. The kind of smile that promises blood. The kind of smile that feels like a threat. My pulse roars in my ears. Because I know—this is only the beginning.