Anastasia | +18

Anastasia

I step into the room, my heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Eight men are sprawled across the plush seating, shrouded in smoke and shadows. Their gazes flick toward me, brief and indifferent, before turning back to their distractions. I don't meet their eyes.

The air is thick with the scent of whiskey, cigars, and something more elusive, something stale, lingering, like sweat and old money.

I move toward the pole in the center of the room, trailing my fingers along the cool metal. A familiar weight settles over me, pressing against my skin, sinking into my bones. The weight of expectation, of performance.

The music thrums low, a steady pulse beneath the murmur of voices. Ice clinks in glasses. A lighter flicks open, the brief flare of flame casting flickering light against sharp jawlines and expensive suits. Their attention is scattered. Some are locked in hushed conversation, others stare at the empty space in front of them, lost in thought, fingers tapping absently against their glass rims.

As I spin, the present fades. The pole beneath my hands. The thick air. The expectant stares. My mind drifts, slipping back to the first time I stood in front of a pole, feeling the weight of expectation then, too.

Years ago

"Lana... are you sure you don't want to come behind the bar with me?"

Iséle's voice is tense, worried, maybe even angry. She doesn't want me dancing. She made me swear never to let a man touch me, and I intend to keep that promise.

In front of me, Silly stands topless, wearing nothing but a thong. Her skin glistens under the dim lights as she grips the pole, hoisting herself up with effortless grace. She spins, wrapping her legs around the steel, arching backward until her head hangs low, brown hair spilling toward the floor like liquid gold.

I swallow. Holy shit, how can she do this ?

"Your turn, Russian girl" Silly says, her tone laced with scorn.

I grip the pole, attempting to mimic her movements. My body swings, momentum carrying me halfway, but when I try to lift my hips, my arms give out. I fall, landing hard on my side.

"Forget it, Silly. I can't do it." I sit up, rubbing my palms, red and raw from the friction.

Silly scoffs. "You can either learn and suffer, or you can be like little Iséle and serve drinks until Mr. Wood fucks you."

"Shut up," Iséle snaps, voice sharp.

I hesitate. But Silly isn't wrong.

Iséle had been in love with Mr. Wood once, and it was him who brought her into this world. She followed him blindly, believing his promises, offering him everything, expecting something in return. But what did she get? A job where men slipped their hands up her skirt when they thought no one was looking. A salary just good enough to survive. Nothing else.

I nod and push myself up. I don't have the luxury of choosing an easy path. I grab the pole again.

Now

As I twist my body, as I arch and move, Iséle's words still echo in my mind.

The choices we made. The ones we never had.

A hand tightens around my wrist. My breath catches.

The other girls are gone, maybe they left some time ago. I don't know, I hadn't noticed. I only feel the weight of the man in front of me. His skin is slick with sweat, gleaming under the dim lights. his cologne thick and cloying, unable to mask the rank combination of alcohol and body odor clinging to him. His lips curl into a grotesque grin, teeth yellowed from years of cigars. His breath spills over me, saturated with whiskey. He yanks me onto his lap, his fingers digging into my thigh, possessive, kneading.

"Mm," he hums, running a hand up my waist, my hip, before gripping my wig. His fingers tangle in the red strands, pulling slightly, testing. Checking to see if it's real.

A sick wave of disgust crawls up my spine, but I don't have time to react. Somewhere in the background, a voice, blurred and distant, swallowed by the haze of revulsion coating my mind.

A heavy thud cuts through the air.

And then I feel it. Warmth. Sticky. Wet. It splashes onto my skin. My arms. My chest. The iron scent hits me before my brain catches up. Red, blood.

Holy shit.