CHAPTER 1
Iris
The nightclub was named Vanish, as if the owner wanted to brag that it was an escape from reality. The bathroom’s gray walls were streaked with faint white lines, and glowing lights circled each mirror over every sink. The music pulsed through the walls, dimming it like silicone earplugs, allowing me to think straight for a minute. My sanctuary within a supposed sanctuary; a place where I could vanish.
In the mirror, my dark brown fish eyes stared back at me, naked without my black eyeliner. I ran a hand through my hair, then looked down at my palm. No traces of the spray-on brown hair dye hiding my inky hair. That was good. As long as he didn’t touch my hair, he wouldn’t know. A little black dress with thick sheer tights and a cardigan hid my tattooed arms and legs. My mask. In his eyes, I would be a normal woman, who simply wanted him because he was rich.
My stomach lurched at the thought. I didn’t belong here with these beautiful people. But I could do this. You might not believe you belong here, I coached myself, and maybe, you don’t. But you are a goddess. You are exactly what the new owner of the Dahlia District is looking for. If only you own it.
The door to the bathroom opened, instantly flooding the room with generic top forty music, the lyrics screeching. Two women cluttered in, casual, yet glamorous, with barrel curls falling down their backs. Smokey eye makeup. The picture of perfection, if it weren’t for the fact that one of them had tears in her eyes, her mascara bleeding, and the other had her arm around her friend’s back, obviously concerned that she might fall. The door closed after them, sucking the sound along with it, the bass still thumping through the walls.
I stared at the mirror, fixing my makeup, trying not to pay attention. The crying one rested her ass against the line of sinks, her head falling into her hands. She sniffled.
“Okay, babe, tell me,” the friend said. “What happened now?”
“He bought her a drink,” the crying one said.
“Who?”
“Casey. I told you. He literally bought her a drink as soon as she got here.”
“I told you he was eyeing her.”
I focused on my eyes. If Teagen, my best friend, had done my makeup, I wouldn’t have been hard on it. I would have thought it looked good, like I could be another friend consoling that woman. But because I was the one who had done it, I scrutinized every smudge.
“But I was his date,” the crying friend was howling now. “I was supposed to meet his friends. He was supposed to meet you.”
“You two agreed to be friends with benefits.”
“But you don’t cuddle every night with a fuck buddy.”
“You already knew I didn’t like him.”
“You never liked him,” she scoffed. “Can you pretend to care for once?”
“Okay. I’m sorry. He’s a—” she paused, thinking it over, “—an interesting guy. But really. You don’t deserve his crap. You deserve someone who sees you for who you are.”
The crying woman was silent then. After a moment, she added, “He sees her for who she is. Always pushing her tits out like she’s got back problems.”
“Hey. It’s not her fault that he’s screwing around on you.”
It was hard not to listen. The volume, for one, rivaled the music, and their words echoed in that long bathroom. And she was crying. Ugly crying. It was weird to think about the problems people had outside of the walls of the Dahlia District. These women weren’t held as slaves, paying off enormous debts. They had sex for pleasure, not purely for profit.
Still, the practical side of me said that the woman’s problems would have been fixed if she had simply monetized it. No more emotions. Only income. Not that she would ever be willing to.
My heels clicked on the tile as I approached them. The crying woman glanced up at me, forcing a smile.
“I don’t have any smokes,” she said. “Do you?”
“Someone at our table might,” her friend said.
I shook my head. “I don’t need a smoke. I couldn’t help but overhear though.”
“Sorry we were so loud,” the friend said.
I turned to the crying woman. “If you want him to regret flirting with that other woman,” I pressed my lips together, showing her the fake smile she should give, then said, “Smile as if he doesn’t exist.”
“Smile?”
“Fake it. Pretend like you don’t care what he’s doing. You just happen to be in the same place. Like you’re everything that he’s missing.”
“That’s easier said than done.”
And she was right. For years, I had pumped myself up before starting a shift at the Dahlia District, telling myself that I might have been flat-chested, short-haired, a gothic outcast, the opposite of what the billionaire club members were looking for, but that I was still a goddess. I could slip into black latex and transform into the woman I knew I was on the inside, shoving the spike of my heel into a man’s balls as he paid me for the privilege. Until finally, I wasn’t playing pretend anymore. I was that woman.
But on nights like tonight, where I was completely out of my element, I still had to play pretend. Pump myself up. Remind myself that I might not have had my platform boots or my riding crop, but I was still that same goddess, just in a different skin.
“You might never truly feel that way,” I said, telling her the honest truth, “But if you can pretend—if you can show him what he’s missing, and smile like he’s always watching you, and always wanting you, then he’ll see what he’s missing.” I shifted my weight, nodding to her. “Make him work for it,” I winked. “Because girl,” I held her eyes, making sure we were staring at each other, “You are gorgeous. You are the goddess he could never have. It’s just you that needs to believe it.”
“Really?” she whimpered. “You think I’m pretty?”
“Oh, come on,” her friend said. “You’re gorgeous.”
“You’re my best friend. You legally have to say that.”
My heart dropped, missing my own best friend. “Yes,” I said. “You’re not just pretty. You are flawless. He should be paying you for the privilege to buy you a drink.”
She laughed, and a lightness filled me. I wasn’t great at being warm and fuzzy, but occasionally I could do it when it came to a fellow woman in need.
I tilted my head. “Really, though. Let him see what he’s missing. Who knows,” I paused, putting a finger to my lips, “You might find someone better.”