The Stripper, The Billionaire, and 365 Days

**ADRIAN** "You look like a man attending his own funeral." Marcus says this while adjusting his tie in the rearview mirror, and I don't bother responding because he's not entirely wrong. Thursday night, ten-thirty, and I'm sitting in the passenger seat of his Tesla watching him grin like he's about to show me the secret to life. "It's a burlesque club, Adrian. Not a board meeting." "I have quarterly reports due tomorrow." "You have quarterly reports due every day because you make them due every day." He turns off the engine. "Two hours. That's all I'm asking." The club is underground. We descend a narrow staircase and I'm already calculating how long I need to stay before leaving won't seem rude. The space is smaller than I expected, all dark velvet and dim lighting. Marcus guides me to a corner table in the back. Marcus orders drinks. I check my phone. "Put it away," he says. "I'm reading." "You're hiding." I put the phone face-down but don't turn it off. A woman in silver sequins is performing when we sit. Then another performer. Then another. I'm thinking about the Nakamura deal, about Tokyo, about whether Isabel remembered to reschedule my afternoon meeting, when the energy in the room shifts. She walks onto the stage in deep reda corset, long gloves, something complicated with feathers,and I notice her the way you notice a fire alarm. Impossible to ignore. She moves like gravity works differently for her. The music is something old and jazzy. She starts removing the gloves, slowly, and I feel Marcus lean forward beside me. The whole room leans forward. But I'm still thinking about Tokyo, about the contract language…. She looks directly at me. Not at the audience. At me. I feel it like a spotlight. Her eyes are dark, lined with something that makes them look bigger. She doesn't smile. She just holds my gaze while she moves, and I realize she's been watching me since she walked on stage. I pick up my phone. It's instinct, defense. I glance at the screen, an email from James, and when I look up again, she's finishing her routine. The room explodes in applause. She takes a small bow, and then she walks to the edge of the stage and speaks in a voice that cuts through the noise. "You know what the saddest thing in this room is tonight?" The crowd quiets. She's still looking at me. "It's not the empty chairs. It's not the broken heating or the water stain on the ceiling." She pauses. "It's the man in the expensive suit in the back who looks like he's never felt anything in his life." Total silence. My chest does something strange. Every person in the room turns to look at me. The woman on stage doesn't break eye contact. She's not smiling. She's not cruel. She just looks sad for me. I stand up. "Adrian," Marcus hisses, but I'm already moving toward the stage. The crowd parts. She watches me approach, and up close I can see she's younger than I thought, maybe thirty, with paint-stained fingers despite the elegant costume. "You're wrong," I say, quiet enough that only the front rows can hear. "Am I?" "You don't know anything about me." "I know you checked your phone during my performance." She tilts her head. "I know you're here against your will. I know that suit costs more than most people make in a month. I know you haven't felt anything real in so long you've forgotten what it's supposed to feel like." My jaw clenches. "That's quite a psychological profile from a five-minute observation." "It's what I do." She crouches slightly. "I read people. You're an easy read, Mr. Cross." She knows my name. Of course she does. Tech billionaire, recently featured in Forbes. "If I'm so easy to read, what am I feeling right now?" She studies me for a long moment. "Nothing," she says finally. "That's the problem." Then she stands, turns, and walks off stage. The crowd erupts again, but I'm still standing there, frozen, that crack in my chest widening into something that might be anger or might be the first honest thing I've felt in years. Marcus appears at my elbow. "Well. That was….." "I want to talk to her." "Adrian, I don't think……." "Now." He sighs but heads toward the side of the stage. I follow. An older man with silver hair steps in front of us, arms crossed. "Show's over, gentlemen." "I need five minutes," I say. "With Sage? Not happening." "It's business." "Bernie." Marcus steps forward. "Come on. Five minutes. I'll vouch for him." Bernie looks at Marcus, then at me, then shakes his head. "Wait here." He disappears through a door marked PRIVATE. We wait. Three minutes pass. Four. Then the door opens, and Bernie jerks his head. "She'll see you. But I'm standing right outside." I walk through into a cramped hallway. She's at the far end, wiping off stage makeup, now wearing jeans and a paint-stained t-shirt. "Let me guess. You want to tell me I was out of line." "No." I stop a few feet away. "I want to hire you." She laughs, sharp and genuine. "For what? A private show? Not interested." "Not for that. For something else." I feel the words forming before I've fully thought them through. "I want to hire you for a year. One performance per day. Whatever you want, however you want. The only requirement is that each performance has to make me feel something I've never felt before." She stops and stares at me. "Are you serious?" "Completely." "That's insane." "That's negotiable." I name a figure that would fund a small nonprofit for a decade. Her eyes widen slightly. Then narrow. "What's the catch?" "No catch. You have complete creative control. I have no say in what constitutes a performance." "And this is what? Therapy? A social experiment? Rich guy looking for meaning?" "Does it matter?" She studies me for a long moment. "One year?" "Three hundred sixty-five days." "And you'll do whatever I say during these performances?" "Within reason." "My reason, not yours." I hesitate, then nod. "Your reason." She walks closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume, something with jasmine and smoke. "Why me?" "Because you're the first person in five years who's made me feel anything at all." The words come out raw, honest, and I immediately regret them. But she doesn't laugh or mock. She just nods, once. "I'll think about it." "I need an answer by……" "Tomorrow," she interrupts. "I'll give you an answer tomorrow." She reaches into a bag and pulls out a card, plain white, just a phone number written in neat handwriting. "Text me your lawyer's information. If I agree, I want a contract." I take the card. Our fingers brush. "What's your name?" I ask, though I already know. "Sage Moreau." She smiles slightly. "But you already knew that, didn't you, Mr. Cross?" "Adrian." "I'll think about it, Adrian." She turns back to the mirror, dismissing me. I leave the dressing room, walk past Bernie's suspicious glare, past Marcus waiting in the hallway, and out into the cold night air. My phone buzzes. A text from Isabel: “The Nakamura meeting got moved to 6 AM your time. Confirmed attendance.” I stare at it, then at the card in my hand with Sage's number. For the first time in fifteen years, I don't care about the meeting. Marcus catches up to me on the sidewalk. "What the hell did you just do?" I pocket the card and start walking toward the car. "Something insane."