Craving the stripper

Chapter 3

It started with roses.

Twenty-four long-stemmed blood-red ones, laid across my dressing room bench like they bled there on purpose. The petals were perfect. Too perfect—almost plastic, like someone had ordered “flawless” off the internet and expected that to equal romance.

There was a note. No name. Just:

You should be worshipped, not stared at by men who don’t deserve you.

— D.

I didn’t need a full name to know who it was. That same man with glacier-blue eyes and the arrogance of a god. The one who walked into my private space like he had a key to my soul. Like I hadn’t already slammed the door on him in my mind a hundred times since that night.

I dumped the flowers in the trash.

But my hands shook the whole time.

⸻

The second gift arrived the next day. I hadn’t even started my shift yet.

It was small. Velvet. A box the color of wine and sin. Inside: a diamond anklet. Platinum chain. Tiny lock charm. The kind of jewelry you don’t buy for a stranger—unless you’re trying to make a point.

There was no note. Just a blank business card with a pressed kiss mark on the back. Deep red.

I stared at it so long my coworker, Alisha, raised a brow.

“Girl… you got a sugar daddy I don’t know about?”

I shut the box.

“No,” I whispered. “Just a man who thinks I’m for sale.”

⸻

That night, I danced.

But something in me had shifted.

I could feel him again. I didn’t see him at first—but the air thickened. The lights pulsed slower. My body moved differently. And when I turned to the far end of the VIP section and found that same cold stare watching me through the darkness, I nearly missed my step.

His legs spread wide. Fingers steepled over his mouth. That same expensive suit. Like he’d just stepped out of a press conference and into my damn nightmare.

He didn’t clap. Didn’t whistle.

Just… watched.

I hated how my body betrayed me.

How my n*****s peaked under the lights.

How heat pooled between my thighs every time I imagined his voice dragging over my skin.

This wasn’t lust.

This was control.

He was twisting it, reshaping it. Making me crave attention I never asked for.

After my set, there was another envelope in my locker.

Inside: a contract.

Legit. A five-figure modeling deal with an upscale boutique that only hired “influencers” and “industry muses.” I was neither. But someone had already signed the bottom in bold ink.

And there was another note.

Quit. I’ll take care of everything. You were never meant to be on that stage.

Let me give you the life your body was born for.

— D.

⸻

I should’ve thrown it away.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I sat in the break room long after everyone else had gone, staring at the contract while my fingers itched to sign something I didn’t believe.

He was trying to save me.

That’s what it looked like.

What it felt like.

But I knew better.

Men like him don’t save women like me.

They buy them.

They rebrand them, reshape them, then keep them in palaces lined with gold cages.

⸻

The next morning, he sent a car.

Not a request. A silent demand.

The driver was polite. Dressed in black. Didn’t say much. But I could feel the weight of his silence. Like he knew everything about me—my address, my debts, my dance schedule. My past.

I didn’t get in the car.

But I stood at the window long after it pulled away, stomach twisted, heart racing.

Because it wasn’t just about attention anymore.

It was about pressure.

Lure.

Possession wrapped in velvet.

And I hated that a tiny part of me—some small, desperate, broken piece—wanted to be chosen. Wanted to be kept.

⸻

That night I danced again. Tried to block him out. But the lights felt hotter. The music felt slower. My skin felt like it was being peeled back under his eyes.

And then—he stood.

Walked to the front of the stage.

Pulled out a single black Amex card.

And slipped it into the garter on my thigh… while holding my gaze like he dared me to stop him.

His mouth brushed the inside of my leg, right above the band, and whispered:

“Soon.”