Married to a Stripper

Chapter 7 – Amber/Ryan

The lobby felt colder than the office. Too sharp, too polished. My heels hit the marble floor in steady clicks, each one louder than the last, like the sound itself wanted to betray how badly I wanted to run.

Heads lifted. Perfect women in perfect blouses paused mid-typing. Their eyes slid over me without hesitation, sharp, assessing, dismissive. Men in navy suits slowed as they walked past, glances grazing, weighing, cataloguing.

They didn’t know who I was. They didn’t need to. Sequins clung to my dress under the leather jacket, red lipstick too heavy for daylight. My hair was pinned back too tight, like armor instead of style. Everything about me screamed not one of us.

“Wrong floor,” one whispered, smirk tugging her lips.

Another tilted her chin toward me, eyes bright with the thrill of tearing someone down.

I didn’t slow. I didn’t blink. Chin high. Always chin high.

The elevator doors slid open with a sterile ding. I stepped inside. Alone. Mirrors lined the walls, splitting me into pieces I barely recognized. One reflection with dark red lips. Another with tired eyes. A third that looked cracked down the middle.

I didn’t know which one was real anymore.

My hand clutched the envelope inside my bag until the paper bent under sweat. Half a million dollars. My education paid. A door that looked like freedom.

Freedom written in ink still felt like a leash. His leash.

The elevator dropped floor by floor, each ding another reminder. My chest burned. My reflection blurred in front of me.

When the doors opened, Chicago swallowed me whole. Wind cut across my face, sharp and unforgiving. Horns blared. Smoke clung to the air. I pulled my jacket tighter, but the contract pressed harder against my ribs, a weight no fabric could hide.

I walked fast. Past towers of glass and steel, past strangers who didn’t look twice. My pulse hammered, blood hot with something tangled, fear, anger, defiance.

By the time the Velvet’s neon glow bled into view, my mouth was dry. The letters flickered, one always half-dead, buzzing like a dying insect. The smell of whiskey, perfume, and sweat seeped into the night air before I even touched the door.

I froze, hand on the frame. My chest tightened. This place had been survival once. My stage. My proof I could endure. Tonight, it felt like walking into a trap, except I was the one setting it.

I pushed inside. Bass thumped through the walls, rattling the mirrors, every beat reminding me of the stage waiting upstairs.

The dressing room was chaos. Sequins scattered the floor, perfume clashed with sweat, and the buzz gnawed at my nerves. Laughter and curses tangled in the air.

Megan perched at the counter, silver bikini catching every shard of light, lipstick half-finished. Her eyes lifted when I walked in, sharp and searching.

“You okay?” she asked, brow furrowing.

I yanked at the corset laces, ribs already screaming. “Define okay.”

“You look… off.”

I smirked thin, tugging harder until I felt the sting against bone. “Maybe I am.”

Her eyes narrowed in the mirror. “You’re hiding something.”

If I told her, she’d look at me different. Pity me. Strip me of whatever pride I had left. I’d rather choke on silence than watch her face twist.

“I’m just tired,” I said, the lie sharp enough to cut.

Megan leaned closer, refusing to let it drop. “You’re shaking, Amber. Don’t lie to me. I’ve known you long enough to see it.”

I pulled harder at the laces until my ribs ached. “Drop it, Meg.”

Her mouth tightened, but she turned back to her lipstick. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t notice. You know I’d cover for you if you needed me.”

Silence stretched, heavy, until she leaned in again, voice low. “Heads up. First row tonight. Some creep who doesn’t blink. Gave me chills.”

My hands stilled. A creep. It could be anyone. Or it could be him.

The thought made my chest burn hot.

I pressed lipstick harder across my mouth, dragging the red until it looked more like a wound than paint. My hand trembled once, then stilled.

Ryan Carter’s voice hissed in my skull: You don’t go back on stage.

Sweat slid down my spine, corset trapping every breath, every tremor. My thighs clenched tight under the weight of nerves, heat pooled low under my ribs. My body betrayed me, but I pulled the laces tighter anyway.

Better pain that was mine than chains he wrote.

If he wanted to leash me, he’d have to catch me first.

Tonight, I would dance.

Ryan

Silence settled heavy in the room the moment she left. Not relief. Not victory. Silence weighted with her scent, vanilla over smoke, stubborn and faintly sweet.

Her lipstick stained the rim of my coffee cup. A crescent red mark against porcelain. A smear no one else would see. But I couldn’t look away.

My teeth locked, pulse ticking once at my throat.

The door opened. Silas entered. Black suit, clean lines, eyes unreadable. He never spoke unless necessary.

“If she goes back to the club,” I said, voice flat, “you call me. Immediately. Every move. Every breath.”

He inclined his head once. “She wants to see how far she can push you.”

“She’ll learn.”

The words came out lower than I meant. More heat than control.

Silas left. The air still smelled like her, vanilla and smoke fighting to linger.

I stared at the cracked coffee cup, at the lipstick mark she’d left behind, and told myself it meant nothing.

My phone buzzed again.

She just walked into the Velvet.

I grabbed my coat before I could think.

If she wanted to play, I’d let her...

but this time, she’d learn who wrote the rules.