The bass vibrated through the floorboards of the Velvet Room, shaking the soles of my silver heels.

Smoky air hung thick under the red neon lights.

I gripped the metal pole, spun slowly, and tried to ignore the shouts of the men at the edge of the stage.

I was not here for them.

I was here for Lily.

Every dollar bill tucked into my waistband meant another can of formula, another pack of diapers.

After my set, I wiped the sweat from my neck with a damp towel in the narrow hallway.

“Sophia,” the floor manager said, pointing toward the corner booth. “He wants to talk to you.”

A man sat alone in the deepest shadows of the VIP section.

He wore a tailored dark grey suit that cost more than my tuition had.

His eyes were calm, dark, and fixed entirely on me as I walked over.

“Sit down, Sophia,” he said.

His voice was quiet, yet it carried easily over the thumping music.

“I do not usually sit with clients unless they buy bottle service,” I said, keeping my hand near my purse.

“I am not a client,” he said. “My name is Dante Russo.”

He pushed a glass of ice water toward me.

“You do not belong in a place like this,” Dante said.

“You do not know anything about me,” I replied.

He leaned forward, resting his large hands on the dark wood table.

“I know you were three credits away from a psychology degree at Northwestern,” Dante said.

My breath caught in my throat.

“I know James Donovan took your life savings and left you pregnant,” he continued.

“And I know you have an eight-month-old daughter named Lily waiting for you in a cramped apartment on the North Side.”

I stood up, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Who are you?”

“Someone who can help,” Dante said, handing me a heavy, embossed business card.

“I need an assistant. Someone smart. Someone who understands how people think.”

He named a monthly salary that made my head spin.

It was more than I earned in a year at the club.