The stage and the wolves
985 Words
The bar didn’t wake up — it breathed.
Low red lights bathed the room in something artificial, something sinful. Smoke curled toward the ceiling, mixing with the scent of cheap perfume and expensive cologne. Glasses clinked. Laughter rang out too loudly. Music pulsed through the floor like a heartbeat that never slowed.
Men didn’t come here for the drinks.
They came to own something.
Behind the curtain, the dancers gathered around cracked mirrors and scattered makeup palettes. Laughter echoed — sharp, brittle, competitive.
Kylie stood slightly apart from them, adjusting the thin straps of her outfit with trembling fingers.
“Look at her,” Vanessa scoffed, reapplying lipstick. She was tall, sharp-featured, with a voice that cut like glass. “She still looks like she’s about to cry every night.”
Tiffany, bubbly and loud in the way that masked cruelty, leaned forward. “Maybe she thinks Prince Charming’s coming to rescue her.”
A chorus of giggles followed.
“She’s too stiff,” Vanessa continued. “Men don’t pay for stiffness. They pay for confidence.”
“Or curves,” Tiffany added, glancing at Kylie with exaggerated pity. “No offense, sweetheart.”
Kylie lowered her gaze. Her hands tightened into fists.
“She doesn’t belong here,” another muttered.
“She belongs in a church choir.”
More laughter.
Then a chair scraped across the floor.
“That’s enough.”
Lara’s voice wasn’t loud — but it carried.
She stood near the vanity, arms crossed. Lara was fuller, striking, confident in a way that didn’t need approval. Her beauty wasn’t delicate. It was commanding.
“You all act like you weren’t new once,” Lara said coolly. “Mocking her doesn’t make you better.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes. “You always have a soft spot for broken things.”
“Maybe I just don’t kick people when they’re already bleeding.”
The room fell silent for a moment.
Before anything else could be said, the curtain snapped open.
The podium coordinator, Mark — thick-necked, impatient, always smelling of sweat and cologne — stormed in.
“Kylie. Now.”
His grip was sudden and rough around her arm.
“I—I’m not ready—”
“That's none of my business . You get on stage.”
The other dancers followed, some curious, some entertained.
The music shifted.
The spotlight hit.
Kylie stepped forward.
The room felt heavier tonight.
Eyes followed her every movement. Whispers. Smirks. Hungry expressions.
She moved the way she’d practiced — careful, controlled — but her chest felt tight. Her breath shallow.
Then a voice boomed from the front row.
“Kylie!”
The music didn’t stop — but everything inside her did.
Mr. Bald.
Everyone knew him.
He was thick-bodied, with a shiny scalp that reflected the red lights. His face sagged at the jawline, lips perpetually wet as though he licked them too often. Small eyes — calculating, impatient. His fingers were heavy with rings.
He didn’t smile.
He smirked.
“Come here.”
It wasn’t a request.
Kylie hesitated.
The room noticed.
“I said come here,” he repeated, irritation sharpening his tone.
Slowly, she stepped down from the podium.
When she approached, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward him.
“Sit.”
“I—I can’t,” she whispered, trying to pull back gently. “Please don’t—”
His grip tightened.
“You work here,” he said flatly. “Don’t act pure now.”
Her voice trembled. “I don’t want to—”
“That is not for you to decide.”
Her heart pounded violently in her chest.
The room had gone quiet.
And then she did the unthinkable.
She pulled her arm free.
“I said no.”
It wasn’t loud.
But it was enough.
Chairs scraped. Murmurs rose.
Mr. Bald’s face darkened.
“Ungrateful little—”
Before he could finish, heels clicked sharply against the floor.
Her stepmother.
Elegant. Controlled. Eyes cold as marble.
She didn’t look at Kylie first.
She looked at Mr. Bald.
“I apologize,” she said smoothly. “She forgets her place.”
Then—
The slap echoed.
Kylie’s head snapped to the side. The sound rang louder than the music.
“You embarrass me?” her stepmother hissed under her breath. “He’s our best client.”
Tears welled instantly in Kylie’s eyes.
“You’re no saint,” her stepmother continued. “Stop pretending to be one.”
The humiliation hurt more than the sting on her cheek.
The crowd watched like it was part of the show.
Lara stepped forward.
“Mr. Bald,” she said, her tone shifting — softer, calculated. “Why don’t you let me take care of you tonight?”
She stepped closer confidently, her presence bold, distracting.
Mr. Bald studied her.
Then, slowly, he leaned back.
“Fine.”
The tension eased slightly.
But Kylie wasn’t spared.
Her stepmother gripped her arm again — nails digging in.
“Backstage.”
The door slammed shut behind them.
No one followed.
Minutes later, Kylie was left alone in the dim dressing room. Her cheek burned. Her arms ached. Her spirit felt fractured.
She sank to the floor.
Silent tears fell freely now.
The door creaked open softly.
Lara.
She knelt beside her without speaking at first.
“I told you not to fight him in front of everyone,” Lara murmured gently — not blaming, just tired.
“I didn’t want him to touch me,” Kylie whispered.
“I know.”
Lara pulled a small first-aid kit from her bag.
Carefully. Tenderly.
“You have to survive this place,” Lara said quietly. “Survival first. Dignity later.”
Kylie looked at her through tear-blurred eyes.
“I don’t know how.”
Lara pressed a cool cloth to her cheek.
“You learn.”
Outside, the music continued.
The wolves kept drinking.
- Writer
