Chapter 1

"Sienna, you're so tight..."

At the graduation party, Archer Brennan—who'd been pursuing me for half a year—got me drunk and tricked me into bed.

When I woke up, he gripped my chin and sneered:

"Last night, I wasn't the only one who slept with you."

Opening my phone, I discovered photos of me in bed with a group of married men had gone viral.

My mom was so furious she slapped him.

He shoved her hard to the ground:

"Weren't you the one who loved being a mistress? Now your daughter's a mistress to a whole group of men!"

My mom had a stroke from the rage.

After they revived her, her mental capacity was permanently stuck at age five.

To support my mom, I became a pole dancer in the red-light district.

Ten years later, as I twisted my body through swirling smoke,

I saw those familiar eyes in the VIP section.

I spun around the pole, the friction of the metal bar making the inside of my thighs burn.

Ten years, and this body still hadn't gotten used to this kind of friction.

But I didn't dare stop.

Every stack of tips from the audience below meant another payment toward my mom's medical bills.

Inverted hold, split, backbend.

Just as I was hanging from one hand, preparing to slide down, my gaze crashed into a pair of eyes.

My breath caught. My hand slipped. I fell straight down from the three-meter pole.

"THUD—"

I slammed hard into the floor, searing pain shooting through my ankle.

The crowd below instantly erupted in jeers and curses.

"What the hell was that? If you can't dance, don't hog the stage!"

"Wasting my time. Get the hell off!"

Manager Diane rushed onto the stage, apologizing in all directions while roughly yanking me up and hissing under her breath:

"Sienna! Are you deliberately trying to sabotage us? Do you know who's here tonight? If you piss off the VIP guests, we could sell you and still not cover the damages!"

I clutched my swelling ankle, cold sweat pouring down from the pain.

Looking up toward the second floor again—that figure was already gone.

Was it a hallucination?

"Still standing there? Get backstage!" Diane shoved me hard.

I stumbled off stage, every step like walking on knife points.

Back in the closet-sized changing room, I'd barely sat down when a server pushed the door open and tossed out:

"Diane says since you screwed up the performance tonight, all your pay is docked."

"All of it?" I shot to my feet. "But my mom has rehabilitation therapy tomorrow."

I grabbed his sleeve. "Can you please ask Diane for some mercy? I promise I'll be more careful next time."

The server shook me off, impatience all over his face:

"Beg for what? You're the one who messed up. Who else is to blame?"

The door slammed shut.

I collapsed back into the chair, the pain in my ankle and the panic in my heart twisting together.

Treatment fees, medicine costs, loan shark interest... a pile of bills circled in my mind, crushing until I couldn't breathe.

If tonight's pay was gone, Mom's rehabilitation would have to be postponed.

Just as I was drowning in worry, the door suddenly opened.

Diane walked in, her expression softer than before:

"Sienna, come with me. A guest in the VIP section specifically requested you for a private dance. Triple the normal rate."

My heart sank.

I knew exactly what going into a private room meant.

Enclosed space, hard liquor, and those hands that wouldn't take no for an answer.

I'd always avoided these situations.

But thinking of my mom's treatment fees, thinking of those life-or-death bills, I hesitated.

"Not going?" Diane raised an eyebrow. "Then forget about this month's base pay too."

"I'll go." I bit through my lower lip.

Having reached this point, what right did I have to be picky?

Diane smiled. "That's more like it. We all work at Red Hall—what's with the high-and-mighty act?"

"Change into a different dress. Don't keep the guest waiting."

I pulled out a relatively conservative black slip dress from the bottom of the closet, threw on a jacket, and followed Diane to the top-floor VIP room.

Pushing open the door, Diane instantly plastered on a smile:

"Mr. Brennan, I've brought her. This is our top performer, Sienna."

I followed her gaze, and my smile froze.

Sitting in the main seat on the sofa was the very person I'd seen from the stage—Archer.

Ten years apart, he was no longer the naive underclassman who used to follow me around.

Now he wore a black suit that emphasized his tall frame. His features carried the cold severity of a mafia boss, his entire presence radiating an intimidating aura that warned people to keep away.

And I had become a dancer in a red-light district, making a living by selling performances.

The humiliation lasted only half a second before I lowered my eyes and put on a professional fake smile.

The current me had no right to emotions.

I walked to the small round platform in the center of the room and moved my body to the music.

Sweat mixed with black eyeliner streamed into my eyes, stinging sharply.

When the song ended, sparse applause sounded.

Archer finally spoke, his voice laced with bone-chilling mockery:

"Sienna, it's been ten years. You've really made something of yourself."