Chapter 1 First Dance

Amelia's POV:

The mirror in the dressing room reflected a stranger. I stared at my reflection, barely recognizing myself beneath the heavy makeup and feathered mask that obscured half my face. Golden waves of hair cascaded down to my waist, framing smoky eyes and glossy lips that belonged to someone else entirely. The black leather miniskirt hugged my hips uncomfortably tight, while the thin straps of the barely-there top dug into my shoulders. The thong beneath made me feel more exposed than covered.

"First time's always the hardest, honey." Monica squeezed my shoulder, her experienced hands adjusting the straps of my outfit. "Just remember why you're doing this."

Lucas. My sweet four-year-old son, probably sleeping peacefully at that small rented apartment right now, clutching his favorite dinosaur plushie. The thought of his innocent face twisted my stomach into knots. What would he think if he knew his mother was about to...

I pushed the thought away. "I just need to make enough money quickly," I muttered, more to myself than Monica. The eviction notice on my apartment door and Lucas's mounting medical bills left me no choice. My previous jobs - waitressing, delivery, running errands - barely covered our basic needs.

Monica reminded me, applying a final coat of shimmer to my shoulders. "You don't have to go all the way on your first night. Just give them a little tease."

The pulsing bass from the main floor of Ivy Club vibrated through the walls. Each beat matched my racing heart as Monica guided me toward the stage entrance. The announcer's voice boomed through the speakers: "Gentlemen, please welcome to the stage... Angel!"

The stage lights blinded me as I stepped out. Through the haze of purple neon, I could barely make out the faces in the crowd. But one pair of eyes caught my attention - dark, intense, predatory. The man sat in the VIP section, his custom suit and commanding presence marking him as someone important. He'd loosened his collar, one hand gripping a crystal tumbler of whiskey, long fingers absently tapping against the glass. Unlike the other patrons seeking cheap thrills, he radiated a dangerous energy that made others instinctively keep their distance.

I forced myself to move with the music, channeling everything Monica had taught me during our practice sessions. My fingers found the first silk glove, sliding it off with practiced slowness. The second followed, both floating to the stage like dark butterflies.

The zipper whispered down beneath the pulsing bass. I slipped out of the leather miniskirt with practiced grace. The stage lights felt like fire on my exposed skin, but I kept moving. Dance like you're telling a story. Make them wait for it.

My hands found the corset laces as the music built toward its climax. The man in the VIP booth leaned forward slightly, the first change in his perfect posture. I arched my back, working the ribbons loose one by one. The corset fell away just as the song reached its peak. The cool air hit my exposed skin like a slap of reality. The crowd's reaction grew more enthusiastic, but I couldn't tear my gaze away from the man in the VIP section. His eyes hadn't left me once.

As I collected my tips afterward, a hostess approached. "The gentleman in VIP Three requested a private dance." She gestured toward the mysterious observer. "He's offering five thousand for fifteen minutes."

Five thousand dollars. Enough to keep Lucas's treatments going for quite a while. I glanced at Monica, who gave me an encouraging nod.

The VIP booth was dimly lit, all leather and mahogany. The man sat in the center of the curved sofa, his presence somehow filling the entire space. Up close, he was even more striking - sharp cheekbones, perfectly styled dark hair, and eyes that seemed to pierce right through my defenses. His broad shoulders strained against the fine fabric of his suit, hinting at the power beneath.

I began my routine, moving to the pulsing music that filtered through the private room. I focused on my practiced routine, letting the rhythm guide my movements. As I swayed closer, his cologne enveloped me - something expensive and masculine that made my pulse quicken. His gaze followed every motion with predatory intensity, but he maintained a controlled stillness that was somehow more unnerving than the hungry stares I'd endured on stage.

My fingers traced down his silk tie as I moved between his knees. His breath hitched almost imperceptibly when my hips swayed inches from his chest. His hands found their way to my waist, warm and firm through the thin fabric of my costume. The subtle flex of his fingers sent electricity racing across my skin.

"You're new at this," he observed coolly, breaking the silence. His voice was deep, smooth like expensive whiskey, and I could feel the vibration of it in my bones.

I maintained my professional smile, continuing my performance even as his thumbs traced dangerous circles on my hips. "What makes you say that?"

A slight smirk played at his lips as he pulled me fractionally closer. The heat of his body radiated through the space between us. "Ten thousand," he said suddenly. "For your real name and an honest conversation."

My movements faltered, hyper-aware of his hands still resting possessively on my waist. That was more than I made in three months. "The dance isn't finished," I managed to say.

"I'm more interested in talking." He guided me to the space beside him, his touch lingering a moment longer than necessary. "Shall we?"

I hesitated, then carefully took a seat, though I could still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin. "Amelia," I found myself saying. "Amelia Wilson."

"Luke Carter." His eyes never left my face, dark and intense in the dim light. "You're an Ivy League dropout. Business school. Dean's list before you left."

I stiffened. "You've done your research."

"I always do." He took a measured sip from his crystal tumbler, and I found myself watching the movement of his throat. "You need money for your son's medical treatment. You're working multiple jobs, taking online courses to finish your degree, and still barely making ends meet."

"Why do you care?" The question came out sharper than I intended.

He leaned forward slightly, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath, his expression unreadable. "I have a proposition for you. A business arrangement that would solve your financial problems."

I waited, tension building in my chest, acutely aware of every inch of space between us.

"Marry me."