Aria

I sat cross-legged in the center of a dance studio so pristine, it looked like a showroom pretending to be a place where people actually sweat. High ceilings, floor-to-ceiling mirrors that swallowed the walls, soft natural light flooding through gold-trimmed windows. It was… stupidly beautiful. Like something out of a rich girl’s dream.

Somehow, I was part of the décor.

Last week, on a whim born from boredom and a caffeine overdose, I’d applied to be a pole instructor here, just ...