Million Dollar Devil

3.

The neon lights at Lilacs glow moody and violet, casting a soft haze over skin and sequins. Music thuds through the walls, heavy bass, pulsing low like a heartbeat. The air tastes like perfume and heat, the clink of cocktail glasses melting into laughter too loud to be sincere.

The stage is chaos. Glitter. Crumpled bills. Bodies moving and snaking through smoke and spotlights.

I'm at the center of it all.

Sweat beads at the curve of my collarbone as I move, hands threading through my hair, hips locked to the rhythm. A man in the front row watches me like I'm something magical, something forbidden. His gaze is hungry. I let it pin me, twist for him, move slower just to watch his pupils flare.

It's not personal. It never is.

But there's a twisted kind of satisfaction in it. A control I never seem to find anywhere else. The broken, reckless part of me lives for that flash of power, the moment someone sees you as something they'll never touch but can't stop wanting. It's temporary, hollow, but it fills the silence for a while.

"Lily! Private party, room three," Alex shouts.

I barely glance at him. Greasy black hair, stained clipboard, a manager badge he probably laminated himself. He exists somewhere between pathetic and pitiful, but he signs the paychecks, so I nod.

I give the man in the front row one last look a flick of my lashes, a parting smirk and then slip off the stage.

Lilacs isn't the worst place to end up. I've seen worse. On a good night, men in pressed suits fill the front tables, their expensive watches catching the light as they raise their glasses. The private rooms are hit or miss, lap dances, conversation, or just silence behind tinted glass. 

Tonight, I got lucky. Pole-only set. Distant. Controlled. The kind of performance that lets me disappear into motion instead of faces.

When I dance like this, my mind drifts. I count songs instead of hours, dollars instead of sleep. Every minute here is one closer to something else, one closer to escape. Because if AKMO calls, if that job offer becomes real, I can finally stop pretending I'm fine with this version of my life.

By three in the morning, I'm back in the dressing room, tugging at sequined straps and peeling glitter from my skin. The air is thick with hairspray and the ghosts of cheap perfume. The mirror's fluorescent light hums. My reflection looks older than I feel, tired in a way sleep doesn't fix. 

I change fast. Sweatshirt, leggings, bag slung over my shoulder. My phone's already in my hand. Refresh. Nothing. Refresh again. Still nothing.

I drive home with the heater cranked to full blast. The December wind cuts through the cracks in my car door. When I finally get inside, the apartment is cold...heater's dead. Again.

I curl up on the couch in my winter coat, microwave mac and cheese balanced in one hand, my phone in the other. Just check once more, I think. Then go to bed.

Instead, I fall asleep halfway through a What Not to Wear rerun.

Ding.

The alert slices through sleep. I blink at the screen, groaning when I see the time: 4:55 a.m. Geez who sends emails before sunrise?

Then I see the subject line:
Executive Assistant Position – AKMO Inc.

My pulse jumps so hard it hurts. I sit up too fast, and my mac and cheese tips onto the floor, splattering across the carpet. I don't care.

I open the message with trembling fingers.

"Lillian, Thank you again for your time this week. If you're still interested, we'd like to offer you the position. Start date would be early next week. Please let us know at your earliest convenience so we can begin onboarding.

– Kyle Jennings, Talent Acquisition"

"Oh my god."

The words slip out like a prayer. I'm on my feet, spinning, clutching my phone to my chest. I nearly trip over the blanket, catch myself on the couch, and laugh out loud.

I type my reply in seconds.

Yes, I'm absolutely interested. Thank you so much. I'm ready to move forward immediately.
– Lillian Taylor

Minutes later, Kyle's reply lands with onboarding forms attached. Tax paperwork, NDAs, benefits packets. The kind of documents that belong to people who have careers, not survival jobs. I scroll until my eyes blur. By the time I finish, the sky outside is the pale gray of early afternoon.

When my phone rings at 8am, I answer instantly.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Lillian. This is Kyle." His voice is calm, precise, just like I remember. I can almost picture the way he straightens his tie before speaking. "Mr. Hayes is in the office today. I'd like you to come by to sign a few things in person and meet him, since you'll be working directly with him."

My stomach flips. Mr. Hayes. Leo Hayes.

"Of course," I say quickly. "I can be there soon"

"Perfect. Check in at reception and I'll meet you in the lobby."

I hang up, heart pounding.

I sit there for a second, staring at my reflection in the dark screen. Then I move. Fast. Black dress. Mascara. Lip gloss. A spritz of perfume that smells like something new.

By the time I get to AKMO, the adrenaline feels electric under my skin. The building glints in the winter light like it knows it's untouchable.

Kyle greets me in the lobby with a nod, then leads me to the elevator. He doesn't say much, and I don't press. The silence between us feels anticipatory, my heart drums.

As we rise, my reflection blurs in the chrome. I smooth the fabric at my waist, even though there's no crease. My palms are warm. My fingers tap the side of my thigh, too fast to be casual.

The elevator dings open on the thirty-eighth floor. Everything gleams. Floors so polished I can see my shoes in them. Walls lined with art that probably costs more than my car. I follow Kyle down the hallway, every step too loud in my own ears.

A heavy black door waits at the end of the hall, brushed silver letters spelling out a name I've only seen on in headlines and Forbes lists.

LEO HAYES

I've seen the name before. In articles, in headlines, in places that feel galaxies away from mine. Seeing it here, close enough to touch, makes something twist low in my stomach. 

Kyle knocks. Three firm raps.

I try not to look nervous, but I feel like I'm vibrating beneath my skin.

My stomach flips.

"Come in," a voice calls from inside. Deep. Smooth. The kind of voice that fills a room without needing to raise itself.

I grip the strap of my purse tighter, pulse skittering. This is it. The line between what I was and what I might be.

I take a breath. Step forward.

This is where it begins.

***AUTHORS NOTE:

Hello! Thank you so much for choosing to give my story a read. If you like it, it means the world to me if you click on that star button!

All my love,
Alexandra