Queen Of Ashes

Chapter 3- Velvet and Smoke

The lights of The velvet Rope bled red onto the sidewalk - a pulsing, seductive heartbeat in a city that didn’t care who bled out. Faith stood across the street, arms folded tight over her chest, staring at the entrance like it might bite. Maybe it would. The sign above the door flickered, casting shadows that moved like ghosts. She’d worn what Silas told her to - a black slip dress, thin as breath and short as shame. Her coat, stolen from a thrift bin, didn’t do much to cover her, and the cold wind that wrapped around her legs felt more like judgement than weather.

She wasn’t ready. But she was already too late to be anything else.

Inside, the air hit her like perfume and rot.

A wave of bass rolled through her chest before she even stepped fully in. the scent - cheap cologne, spilled whiskey, desperation masked with rose - scented air freshener - wrapped around her like a second skin.

The lighting was low and moody, all crimson, velvet and gold trim. It wanted to feel expensive, but everything had edges. Nothing here was soft. The cushions were torn, the mirrors fogged, the floors sticky with stories that no one ever spoke out loud. Faith didn’t realize she’d stopped walking until a voice snapped her back.

“You new?” A woman stood behind the bar, drying a glass that would never be clean. Her lipstick was perfect. Her eyes were tired. Faith nodded. “Name?” the woman asked. “Faith.” the woman gave a short laugh - not cruel, just… knowing. “Course it is.” She jerked her chin toward a narrow hallway. “Dressing room’s down there. Don’t sit on anything with fabric. Silas’ll be in soon.”

Faith walked. Each step felt like sinking.

The dressing room smelled like hairspray, heat and secrets. Women were everywhere - in stages of undress, in stages of life. Some were loud, laughing too hard at things that weren’t funny. Some were silent, eyes blank as walls. One girl - no older than Faith - was applying eyeliner with trembling hands. Another pressed a cold can of Red Bull to a bruise beneath her rib. They looked at her and they didn’t. They’d seen a thousand versions of her before. “You’ll get used to it.” someone said behind her. Faith turned. The woman from the bar stood in the doorway.

“Or you won’t.”, she added with a shrug. “Either way, if you stay long enough, the place starts to feel like it’s inside your bones.”

“What do I have to do?” The woman tilted her head, studying Faith like a teacher sizing up a student who asked a dangerous question. “ You smile. You listen. You keep your mouth shut when it matters, and open when it’s expected. You let them think they own the room - but don’t ever let them believe they own you. That’s how you survive.” “What’s your name?” Faith asked. The woman paused. Her reflection caught in the mirror behind them. “Fatima.” she said. “But that won’t help you.”

Faith stood backstage, behind a curtain that smelled like smoke and perfume, heart punching the inside of her ribs like it wanted out. Laughter and jazz bled from the speakers. A man barked something about bottle service. The DJ;s voice oozed into the mic like oil over glass. And then she heard it:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome our newest gem…”

She stepped out before her name finished echoing. The lights were blinding. The music was low and slow, designed to make skin crawl in a good way. Men watched from leather booths, their eyes shiny with hunger. They weren’t interested in her name. Just what they could buy with a drink, a smile and a folded twenty.

She moved like she remembered seeing in music videos, trying not to overthink each step. Trying not to hear her mother’s silence. Trying not to feel the heat of the spotlight tattooing shame across her skin. Fake it until it feels real. That’s what Silas had said when he shoved the dress into her hands and told her, “You’re about to make more money than most girls dream of.” She’d wanted to scream at him that dreams shouldn’t come with dollar signs and bruises.

Instead, she nodded . And now she danced.

When She came off stage, she didn’t cry.

She sat in front of the of the mirror, wiped the sweat from her chest, and counted the bills folded into her garter like they were lottery tickets. Fatima passed behind her and paused. “You did good,” she said. “Didn’t flinch.” Faith met her eyes in the mirror. “I will,”she whispered. “But not tonight.” Fatima nodded. “That’s the trick, sweetheart. Don’t flinch when they want you to. Flinch later. When no one’s looking.”

Faith didn’t sleep that night. She stared at the ceiling of her shared room above the club, the bed hard beneath her. She listened to the muffled thump of music below, the screams from down the hall, the sirens outside. Her legs ached. Her throat burned. Her eyes refused to close. But somewhere deep in her chest, under the fear and the shame - something was burning.

It wasn’t hope.

It was heat.

The kind that rises.