Nyomi stood outside the building, staring at the glowing sign above the entrance. It didn’t look like an office. It looked like… a bar?

She checked her phone again, scrolling to the message Mia had sent. The address matched. No mistake.

Is this the right place? she wondered, her brows furrowed.

She pushed the door open.

The air inside hit her like a wave—cool, scented, and loud. Multi-colored lights danced across the ceiling, flickering like stars in a rave. The bass from the speakers thumped deep in her chest, vibrating through her bones. Disco music played in the background, layered with laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional shout from the bartender.

The bar was polished, lined with bottles that sparkled under the lights—vodka, rum, whiskey, champagne. The shelves behind it glowed neon blue. A group of men in designer shirts leaned against the counter, sipping drinks and eyeing the girls who walked past in skimpy dresses.

The crowd was mixed—young, flashy, and unapologetically bold. Girls in tight dresses and high heels strutted like they were on a runway. Some danced. Some puffed hookah. Some just sat, scrolling through their phones like they had nowhere better to be.

Nyomi hesitated, her hand still on the door.

This doesn’t feel like an interview.

Then she spotted her.

The second lady from the bar yesterday—sitting in the middle of a group of women, legs crossed, chewing gum like she owned the place.

Nyomi walked over, trying to keep her nerves in check.

“Hi ladies,” she said, voice soft but clear.

One of them popped her gum loudly. None of them responded.

Nyomi sat down anyway, clutching her purse like it was armor.

A bartender approached, wiping her hands on a towel. “Y’all should submit your medical report right now.”

Nyomi turned to look up—and froze.

“Sammy?” she blinked. “Do you work here? What are you doing here?”

Sammy didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. Didn’t act like they know each other. .

She looked right past Nyomi like she was invisible.

Nyomi leaned forward. “I came here for an interview, but I don’t understand what’s going on. Now you’re acting like I’m a stranger? I need to call Mia.”

Just then, Mia appeared—like she’d been watching from the shadows.

“Mia,” Nyomi stood up, relief washing over her. “I’ve been here for about twenty minutes. I haven’t been interviewed. Are we applying in the bar? Can you please tell me what’s happening?”

Her voice was calm, but firm. She needed answers.

Mia rolled her eyes and stepped closer, her heels clicking against the floor.

“Girl, you need to fucking calm down,” she snapped. “You came to me. I didn’t force you to be here. So don’t get me pissed, man.”

A girl in a crazy bum short stepped forward and lit Mia’s cigarette. Mia took a long drag, then exhaled slowly, eyes narrowed.

“Sammy, get all the girls together,” she said.

Sammy moved through the group, collecting medical reports like it was routine. When she reached Nyomi, their eyes met. Nyomi tried to signal her—Say something. Are we safe?. But Sammy looked away, expression blank.

Nyomi handed over her medical report, heart thudding.

“Follow me, ladies,” Mia ordered.

Everyone stood.

Nyomi’s legs felt heavy, her heartbeat loud in her ears. She didn’t know where they were going, but she followed.

They walked through a hallway lit with red and purple lights, the music growing louder with each step. At the end of the hall was a door—black, glossy, with “VVIP ONLY” written in bold gold letters.

Three hefty men stood guard, dressed in black and white uniforms. One of them nodded at Mia.

“Well done, ma’am,” he said.

Mia waved a finger in acknowledgment, not breaking stride.

The door clicked open.

Inside, the room was darker, moodier. The lights were dim but dramatic—spotlights on the stage, strobes flickering across the floor. couches lined the walls. The air smelled like perfume, dancers sweats , and expensive cologne.

“Girls, get undressed. Immediately,” Mia ordered .

Nyomi blinked. “What?”

G-strings and nipple covers were handed out like souvenirs. Masks followed—butterflies , sleek, designed to hide their faces but not their bodies.

Nyomi’s hands trembled as she held the items. Her mind raced.

Is this a stripper club?

The disco lights shifted again—red, blue, purple. The DJ’s voice boomed through the speakers.

“Track’s ready. Let’s go!”

Mia clapped her hands. “DJ, be on track! Girls, shake what your mama gave you! No dulling in here, please!”

The music dropped. The beat was heavy. The room came alive.

Men in suits and ties entered, their faces masked as well, their presence commanding. They didn’t speak. They just watched.

Nyomi’s eyes scanned the crowd—then stopped.

A tall man stood near the back, his posture straight, his aura different. His suit was tailored, his shoes spotless. The scent of his cologne reached her even from across the room—clean, masculine, expensive.

Her breath caught.

She didn’t know who he was. His face was masked. But something about him felt….. attractive.

She stepped toward the pole, her fingers grazing the metal.

“For $2,000,” she whispered to herself, “I’m done being a good girl.”

She twisted her body around the pole, slow, deliberate. Her eyes locked on the man in the suit.

She walked toward him like she’d been waiting for him to have her.

Being a good girl had brought her nothing but pain, poverty, and disappointment.

Tonight?

She was done with that.

She went to his front and started twisting her waist like she had been rehearsing. The man released his tie and went closer to her. He watched her make those naughty moves.

“Name your price” he whispered in her ears