LACED IN LIES

Chapter 3

By nightfall, I slipped into tonight’s outfit—another corset, this one deep burgundy, hugging my curves like a second skin. The black skirt was tighter tonight, with two slits on each side, and the heels made my calves pop. My hair was down and wavy again, falling over one shoulder. I oiled my skin until it gleamed like bronze under the mirror lights. I smelled of vanilla and warm musk, my body language was a blend of seduction and control. Still, as I stood outside the club, lights humming, music low inside, my palms itched with tension.

As I stepped through the doors, the place was already alive. The scent of liquor and perfume coated the air like silk and smoke. Amber, a brunette with hazel eyes and sharp cheekbones, waved me over at the bar.

“Looking like that, someone’s definitely getting rich tonight,” she teased.

Beside her, Lola, curvy and caramel-skinned, leaned against the counter with a smirk. “Girl, if I had your waist, I’d be charging entrance fees.”

I laughed, sliding into the familiar rhythm of banter. “If I had your hips, the world wouldn’t be ready.”

But the laughter faded quickly when Dante emerged from a side door, clipboard in hand, dressed in his usual all-black ensemble—black suit, black tie, black shoes. His expression, stone-cold, flicked to me.

“Mel,” he called, voice low but sharp.

I straightened.

“You’re covering VIP tonight.”

My heart skipped. “Got it.”

“And Mel…” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Don’t mess this up.”

I nodded, nerves spiking. “Yes sir”

The VIP lounge was on the upper floor, dimly lit and drowned in red tones—curtains like blood, lights like dying embers. I paused at the doorway, my breath catching. The room pulsed with wealth. Men dressed in dark suits sat reclined like kings in velvet chairs. The air smelled of sandalwood, cigars, and too much money. Strippers moved fluidly among them—half-naked, glittering, performing like art pieces for an audience that never blinked.

I scanned the area and the people there for another minute and then I saw him.

Not just another suit. This man stood out. He sat slightly apart, like the world was just a noise he tolerated. Midnight-black hair slicked back, a silver watch gleaming beneath his dark sleeve. His jawline was a clean, perfect cut; lips relaxed in a line of boredom or calculation—it was hard to tell. He wore a deep navy shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal the smallest hint of chest. His gaze was predatory, still, unreadable. His presence was a weight that bent the room around him. And when his eyes found mine—

My knees nearly gave.

He didn’t smile. But something in his expression shifted, interest sparking in the abyss.

I swallowed hard, turned away, and went to the bar to start working. Hours crawled by. The crowd grew louder. Glass clinked. My heels ached. I danced between tables with empty smiles and practiced grace, until I reached one of the corner tables. A table of four, loud and drunk. One of them, bloated and red-faced, smirked as she leaned over to pour champagne.

“Now this is service,” he slurred. “How much for a private pour, sweetheart?”

“Just doing my job, sir,” I replied, stiffly.

“You could do it slower. Or better.” Laughter erupted.

Then—fingers, cold and wet, grazed my upper thigh. “Dance for me, you slut!”

Before I could react, a hand slapped the drunk’s wrist away with enough force to jolt the table.

“That’s enough,” said a voice behind me—deep, calm, but sharp like steel.

I turned. It was him. The man who almost made me turn into a puddle of myself a few hours ago.

He stepped between me and the man, one hand gently curling around my hip as he shifted me behind him. The contact was brief—but electric. I could barely breathe. His touch was firm, not possessive, but protective in a way that made my chest burn.

“You touch her again,” he told the drunk, eyes dark as oil, “and you’ll leave here with less fingers than you came with.”

The man muttered something, but shrank back into his seat.

I didn’t realize I was shaking until we were walking away from the table. The stranger hadn’t said another word, just steered me with a light pressure at my lower back until we were away from the crowd. He stopped. Turned to face me.

“You alright?”

I looked up into his eyes—dark gray like a storm cloud on the edge of breaking.

“Yes,” I breathed. “Thank you.”

He gave me a single nod. “Be careful who you serve in here.”

And then he was gone, swallowed into the room’s velvet shadows.

I stood frozen for a moment after the man walked away, but the weight of what just happened clung to my skin like something filthy. My chest began to tighten, my breath thinning out like smoke in winter air. Without a word, I slipped past the bar, down the narrow hall behind the stage. The music dimmed into a dull throb behind the walls.

I was alone now, I leaned against the wall, one hand bracing my weight, the other curled into a trembling fist.

It wasn’t just the drunk’s hand—it was what it reminded me of.

His voice, the grin, the grab—it all yanked me backward, into a place I’d fought hard to bury. The past clawed its way to the surface. My breathing turned shallow. My vision swam.

I hated this feeling. Hated that it made me feel weak after I had fought so hard to be strong.

I closed my eyes tightly, grounding myself in the present.

Still, it took a full minute for my lungs to obey again. For my pulse to ease back into something bearable.

When I finally stepped away from the wall, my hands were still slightly unsteady.

When I came back out, the hallway near the offices was quiet. A door creaked open. Light spilled from inside.

Dante’s office.

My heart thudded. I checked over my shoulder. No one.

I crept forward; the club noise muffled by thick walls. Inside the office, papers were scattered. A file laid open. I edged toward the desk, flipping through documents—supply invoices, payroll, nothing of note. I moved to the drawers, my fingers curling around the metal handle just as—

The doorknob clicked behind me.

My stomach dropped. I heard footsteps.

I froze, still bent behind the desk, every muscle locked in place.

What was I going to say?