Married to a Stripper

Chapter 10 – Amber

I woke tangled in sheets too soft, too clean. For a suspended second I thought I’d dreamed it all, the Velvet, the contract, Carter’s shadow cutting through my life. But the stillness pressed too heavy.

No upstairs neighbor dragging chairs. No TV screaming through cracked walls. No frying pans above. Just muffled stillness, sterile and hollow, swallowing breath before it could rise.

I turned my face into the pillow, breathing in cotton that smelled faintly of detergent and money, like the kind of store I’d never dared to step into. No cigarettes, no body spray, no cheap perfume. The absence was almost louder than the noise I’d grown up with. It scraped something raw inside me.

My skin prickled against cotton smooth enough to make me uneasy. I’d fallen asleep naked, too drained to climb back into the dress abandoned on the floor. Sequins twisted, smoke and sweat still clinging like fingerprints from the Velvet.

For a moment, I thought about leaving it there. Letting it rot on the pristine floor like a warning. But fear pressed sharper, fear of showing weakness, of giving Carter the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart in his glass box.

I pulled it on again. The zipper was stiff, sequins scraped my thighs, fabric clung where it shouldn’t. Heels pinched when I shoved my feet back in, straps biting raw. Every inch dragged the Velvet’s dirt into a home that wanted to bleach me out.

Downstairs, staff drifted like shadows. Polished shoes silent on pale stone, polite nods, eyes sliding past me. The table looked staged for a photograph: fruit carved into crescents, silver bright as knives, eggs steaming without a smell.

I didn’t touch it.

A maid stopped, bowed her head. “Miss Cole, there are clothes prepared for you in the closet.”

I almost smiled. “Of course there are.”

I turned and went back up the quiet stairs.

The closet stopped me cold. Bigger than my old living room. Racks lined in order, shoes gleaming under spotlights, handbags perched like trophies. My reflection fractured across three mirrors, catching the flecks of gold in my hazel eyes. Hair still damp, brown at the roots, lighter where bleach had bitten, messy waves I hadn’t had time to tame. My thighs showed faint bruises, legs strong from years of performance. I looked less like a mannequin for these clothes and more like a fighter lost on the wrong stage.

But first… the bathroom.

Marble chilled my soles. Towels heavy as armor. On the counter, jars with gold lettering, bottles thick and glassy. I twisted one open. A sharp floral scent cut the air, layered, expensive. Soap slid rich, lathering into foam soft as silk.

The shower poured hot, endless. Not the rusty trickle I’d known. A flood. I braced my palms to the wall, let the heat drown me, foam sliding down my body like someone else’s skin. Pretended, for one stolen minute, that it belonged to me.

The water beat my back until my muscles unclenched, until the burn of last night’s stage faded from my knees. I closed my eyes and, for a dangerous heartbeat, imagined Carter watching me here, too—imagined his stare following the slide of water over my breasts, the foam catching between my thighs. The thought made me clench, shame and heat knotting low. I scrubbed harder, trying to erase it.

When I stepped out, the towel swallowed me whole. I held it tighter than I meant, a knot in my throat refusing to budge.

Back in the closet, I dressed. Dark jeans hugging my hips too perfectly. A plain white T-shirt smooth as water. Sneakers stiff, soles untouched. I stared at myself.

Simple. Effortless. Ordinary.

It looked less like clothing and more like a costume, as if I’d been cast in a role I never auditioned for.

“Perfect,” I murmured. “Now I look like I belong to someone else.”

Back downstairs, the untouched food still waited. The air pressed thicker. Then, at nine sharp, the crack of heels split the quiet.

Sophie.

Tall. Flame-haired. A black sheath like armor. Her curves hit first, full bust cinched tight, waist narrow, hips powerful. Voluptuous without apology, every line controlled. Wine-dark mouth, porcelain skin, hair twisted into submission.

Her gaze swept me, clinical, peeling me raw without touching.

“You’re Amber,” Sophie said. Not a question. A verdict.

I lifted my chin. “So they tell me. And you are?”

“Your salvation, apparently.”

She snapped her fingers. Staff rolled in racks of silk and satin. Dresses like soldiers, shoes in formation.

“Strip,” Sophie said. Not loud. Not cruel. Just inevitable.

My mouth curved faint. “Efficient. Straight to the point. I can appreciate that.”

I pulled the T-shirt over my head, bra straps frayed, skin prickling under Sophie’s gaze. Not leering. Weighing. Measuring. Like a tailor cutting cloth.

“Faster,” she said, thrusting red silk into my hands.

I slipped into it. The zipper sliced my spine, ribs caged, lungs clipped. The fabric hugged damp skin from my shower, silk clinging to my curves in a way that felt like someone else had claimed them. My n*****s peaked under the chill, obvious against the fabric, and heat flushed my chest. I hated that I noticed.

“Shoulders straighter. Less sway. Walk like you belong,” Sophie said.

I gave her a look, then, deliberately, tilted my hips, rolling into a slow, playful step straight out of the Velvet. A mock-strut, subtle but unmistakable.

I smiled, sharp but light. “What? This doesn’t count as walking straight?”

Her eyes narrowed, not amused. “You’re not on stage anymore. Men aren’t your audience here. Power is.” The words sliced, and instead of breaking me, they fueled me. Because she was right—except one man was always watching, even when he pretended not to.

The door creaked.

I froze mid-step.

My throat tightened, but I forced my chin high, steady. Still, an involuntary shiver flickered down my spine and I prayed Sophie hadn’t seen it.

Then his voice cut, merciless, final.

“You can play all the games you want. But no matter how many dresses you try on, you’ll still be trash.”

The words scorched my chest.

I swallowed hard, but my voice came crisp, unshaken. “At least I didn’t need a will to keep someone at my side.”

The air turned to glass. Silence, about to shatter.

He stepped in, and the room shifted. Heat rolled off his body like a storm trapped in a suit. Leather and his cologne crawled over my skin until I wanted to scratch it off. My pulse pounded hard enough to hurt.

His eyes dragged over me, deliberate, slow, and I felt stripped even though I was caged in silk. My n*****s peaked again under his stare. My thighs pressed together on instinct, hating how the memory of Wicked Game still pulsed inside me. It was like my body remembered the rhythm, the grinding and hatedthat it hadn’t all been fake.

I clenched my fists at my sides, nails digging crescents into my palms. I needed the sting to ground me. To remind myself I wasn’t here to bend. Not to him. Not ever.

I kept my fists clenched long enough to count backward in my head. Half a million, I thought. Half a million and I could finally breathe. Rent paid years ahead. No more scraping dollar bills into envelopes. A studio instead of a stage. A Pilates certification with my name on it. My body had always been my currency, at least this way it could be my job without men shoving money down my bra. Books never stuck; words slipped and scrambled until they laughed at me. Dyslexia turned learning into a fight I couldn’t win on paper. But movement? Movement I understood. Movement I could teach. And when I walked away, I’d hold a certificate that was mine, lnot Carter’s, not the Velvet’s. Mine. That’s why I signed. Not for his penthouse. Not for his control. For the one exit I could still build.

The silence weighed heavier, fire and ice twisted tight in the same breath.

Sophie didn’t move, but I felt her attention like a needle. She could smell when a dress fit and when a woman broke. I didn’t break.

Carter’s gaze didn’t budge. “You think a different dress makes you less of what you are?”

I let my smile sharpen. “No. It just makes me harder to ignore.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not softness. Never that. More like the moment a match catches.

He stepped closer. The silk pulled cool across my ribs when my breath hitched. I hated that he saw it. “Understand this,” he said, voice low enough to scrape. “You don’t win here with little shows and cheap smiles. You survive by staying in line.”

“Survival’s my specialty,” I said. “Don’t worry about me.”

His jaw flexed once. He looked at Sophie without looking away from me. “Nine tomorrow.”

Sophie’s voice was even. “Nine.”

He turned, the door handle catching light like a blade.

“And Amber…” he said, not facing me.

I refused to flinch. “What.”

“Pull that act again, and I won’t just watch.”

The door shut. Final.

I didn’t breathe for a count of three. Then I did. Slow. Controlled. Sophie moved first, brisk, like nothing had happened. “The red works,” she said, professional again. “But black will slice cleaner tonight.”

I nodded, hands steady now. “Then let’s cut.”