Beauty and the Devil

chapter 10:

Samantha’s POV

Claire’s hands moved with quick precision—lip gloss, powder, tugging at the ribbon tying one of my pigtails. She didn’t speak much, which I appreciated. My mind was already spinning too fast, like it was trying to crawl out of my own body and escape down the hallway.

The white lace set they put me in felt soft but tight, like it was trying to squeeze me into a version of myself I didn’t recognize. Every inch of it said something I never had the nerve to say out loud. Ribbons at the thigh, garter straps, tiny satin bows on the bra cups. The effect was... specific.

“You’re the innocent,” Claire had said earlier, nodding in approval. “The untouched one. That’s your angle. That’s what they want.”

The idea made my stomach twist.

Innocence was just another role to sell.

She handed me a mirror. I didn’t take it. I didn’t want to see.

A man’s voice echoed through the club from just beyond the velvet curtain—deep and theatrical.

**“Gentlemen… get ready for something new. Fresh from the hands of the boss himself… a little taste of sweet innocence. Make some noise for our newest angel—Luna.”

My pulse went completely still. And then it roared.

Claire leaned in and kissed my cheek. “You’ll be fine,” she whispered, already walking away.

The curtain parted.

The lights hit me like a tidal wave—blinding white, sharp gold. The stage gleamed like glass, slick and endless. There were so many people. Faces blurred into shadows, but the energy was thick. Pressed against the walls. Filled every booth. Men leaned forward, drinks in hand, their eyes crawling up my legs before I even moved.

Music dropped—Britney Spears, something poppy but slinky, and suddenly I was a character in someone else's music video.

I didn’t move at first. My body felt too tall, too small, too fake.

Then I saw them.

Clyde, seated in the VIP booth like a king surveying his new acquisition. And next to him, Aaron—leaning back with a drink in hand, eyebrows raised like he was enjoying the view more than he expected.

This is for Michael. I reminded myself. Get through it.

I walked to the center pole—white heels clicking softly beneath the throb of the music—and placed my hand against the cool metal. Let myself breathe. The crowd expected nerves. That worked in my favor. Every hesitation just made the fantasy stronger.

I started slow. Simple movements. Let the music tell me what to do.

I didn’t flip upside down or drop into the splits. I didn’t need to. The outfit did half the work, and the rest was in the suggestion—the way I looked down when I caught someone’s eye, the little flick of my pigtail over my shoulder. They weren’t here for a gymnast. They were here for the idea of me.

And the idea was working.

I could feel it—how the crowd changed. The low roar of conversation had died down, and the silence was filled with something sharper. The tension of attention. Their eyes were locked in. Hungry. Curious. Wanting.

Even Aaron.

Especially Aaron.

When the music ended, the applause was loud. Claire had told me sometimes it was just polite clapping, like after a meal. This wasn’t that. This was something else.

I stepped down from the stage carefully, heart pounding too loud in my ears, skin hot and tingling.

Aaron met me before I could get off the floor. He was already reaching into his jacket.

He handed me a folded bill—€1000, just like that. The paper felt too soft to be real.

He smiled at me, close enough that I could smell his cologne. “Next time, I’m ordering private,” he said with a wink.

I didn’t know what to say. My fingers tightened around the bill. My smile didn’t reach my eyes.

I looked past him, toward the booth.

Clyde sat back in his corner like a painting that refused to explain itself—half-shadowed, still, framed in gold and velvet. He hadn’t clapped. Hadn’t moved. He just watched. Like I was a slot machine he’d rigged from the inside.

Aaron was saying something to one of the girls near him, laughing under his breath. Clyde didn’t glance at him. Or at me.

Still, I stepped closer.

“Did I... do okay?” I asked, voice lower than I meant it to be. “For a first time.”

For a second, it was just silence.

Then he looked at me. Slowly. Deliberately. The kind of look that wasn’t about eyes—it was about weight.

“You’re not here to do okay ,” he said. “You’re here to earn.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

He stood—one smooth motion—and took a step forward, down toward me.

I felt it in my spine before he said anything else.

“And for the record,” he added, brushing past me like I was furniture. “That wasn’t a dance. That was a schoolgirl stretching her legs for rent money.”

The heat that had bloomed in my chest shriveled instantly. My fingers curled against my thighs, nails digging into my skin. He didn’t wait to see how I’d take it.

He paused at the edge of the curtain, then glanced over his shoulder.

“Your place is backstage,” he said flatly. “With the others. Try not to embarrass me again.”

Then he disappeared into the dark.

And I stood there—lip gloss smudged, legs trembling, skin still buzzing with applause I couldn’t hear anymore—feeling like I’d just handed someone my soul and watched them fold it into napkin trash.