CHAPTER 43: TWENTY FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS

Trish had called her earlier, announcing that she wouldn’t be dancing that night. Apparently, she had a date with a wealthy man. Ivy rolled her eyes, a cynical smirk tugging at her lips. A week, she thought. A week and he’d get tired of Trish’s drama and ghost her.

Ivy opened her locker, the cold metal creaking, and found her outfit for the night. Ben had left it folded neatly on the top shelf, as always. A black sequined lingerie set. Matching mask included. She sighed. Same as three weeks ago. No variety, no new thrill—just repetition.

She changed quickly and sat down heavily on the bench, the sequins cool in her lap. Her thoughts spun in restless circles.

"Ivy! Ivy!" Ben’s sharp voice cut through her storm of thoughts, snapping her back to the present. He stood at the doorway, a permanent scowl on his face. "You’re up."

"Oh... right." She blinked, pushing everything else into the back of her skull. With practiced ease, she slipped the black mask over her face, the sequins catching in the dim vanity lights. The mask allowed her to be someone else. Tonight, she was Beyoncé. The woman men screamed for. The fantasy they’d never own but paid to touch with their eyes.

The stage lights hit her when she stepped out, and the crowd erupted. "Beyoncé! Beyoncé!! Beyoncé!!!" The chant was thunderous, primal, and she forced a sugary smile onto her lips, even as her stomach twisted. She gripped the pole, her body moving instinctively as Usher’s "Yeah" blasted through the speakers. She swung around the pole, arched her back, let her hips roll in time with the beat. The men went feral, dollar bills flying, eyes glassy with lust. She flipped, dipped low, hair spilling over her shoulder, and reminded herself to count the rhythm of the music instead of the minutes until she could escape.

When the song ended, she struck her final pose, chest heaving, sequins glimmering. She took a bow, sugar-sweet smile still fixed. The audience roared their approval. She turned on her heel, and disappeared behind the curtain.

Kelvin was waiting in the dressing room.

He leaned casually against the vanity table

"Kelvin, what are you doing here slumming it with us?" Ivy laughed.

"I didn’t want to waste my time calling you into the office," Kelvin said smoothly. "I already know what your response will be. But the client offered even higher this time. Twenty-five thousand dollars. I might as well just go back up and give him the same answer."

Her heart skipped. "The same man?" she asked cautiously. She knew who he meant, of course. The faceless ’client’ who always asked for her specifically, the one who never settled for anyone else.

"Same man," Kelvin confirmed, eyes glinting as if he could see straight through the mask she still wore.

"Twenty-five thousand? For a lap dance?" she scoffed. That was more money than she had seen in her account in months. Hell, maybe years.

"Twenty-five thousand... tonight." Kelvin was already turning away.

"I’ll do it."

"What?" Kelvin turned back sharply, one brow raised.

"I need the money." Ivy straightened, the sequins of her lingerie catching the light.

"You always needed the money," Kelvin said softly. "What changed?"

She hesitated for a breath, then let the words spill out, sharp as broken glass. "Twenty-five thousand will keep my head above water until I get a better job." Her throat tightened.

He let his gaze rake over her body in calculation. In truth, Mr Kane hadn’t offered twenty-five thousand. He had offered forty. Kelvin was the middleman, after all, and middlemen always took their cut.

"Fine," he said at last.

Ivy nodded. She told herself it was just another dance.

"Come with me."

She had never been to the platinum section before. That was hallowed ground—an exclusive domain reserved for high rollers, politicians, moguls, and the type of men who could buy a girl’s life with the contents of their pocket square. Every dancer whispered about it. Now, she was walking straight into it.

The elevator ride felt suffocating. The mirrored walls reflected her nervous posture back at her—chin up, smile ready, body on display. Kelvin said nothing during the ascent.

When the doors slid open, the atmosphere changed immediately. Gone was the neon chaos of the main club floor. The platinum section was hushed decadence, with plush carpet muffling footsteps, and dim sconces that dripped warm, seductive light. The air itself smelled richer.

They walked down the corridor of private booths, each one veiled with heavy curtains, the muffled sounds of laughter and moans seeping through. Ivy’s palms dampened, her heart hammering in her chest.

Kelvin stopped at a booth near the end, pulled the curtain aside, and motioned for her to enter. Ivy took a breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped inside.

Winn’s gaze hit her like a physical blow.

At first, he couldn’t believe it. His pulse surged in disbelief, then confusion, then a sharp stab of anger. She’s here. She’s actually here. His stomach twisted. Why the hell was Ivy here? Did she know? Did she realize he was the platinum member who had been hounding Kelvin? Or was she so desperate for money that she had finally given in?

He had spent days imagining what he would say if he ever saw her in this place, in this context. Now all those rehearsals went up in smoke.

Ivy froze the moment her eyes landed on him. Her body turned to stone, breath lodging in her throat. Her fingers shot up to adjust her mask, tugging it lower across her face. Of all the men in the world... it had to be him.

Winn leaned back against the couch and decided to wait. To let her move, to let her sweat, to let her give him every ounce of the forty-thousand-dollar performance he had paid for.

He stayed quiet and watched her. He had waited weeks for this moment, had offered absurd amounts of money just to lure her up here, and now she was finally standing before him. Her silence was amusing, her nervousness intoxicating.