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I want to probe further, but she's already moving away, helping one of the nervous girls with her costume.
Familiar pre-performance jitters settle in my stomach, but underneath there's something else—a nagging feeling that I'm walking into something…
No, it can’t be. My instructions were clear.
I roll my shoulders, centering myself.
Nerves keep you sharp, keep you alive,my mother's voice whispers.
I check my reflection one last time. The dancer looking back at me is confident, professional, just hungry enough for the job to be believable. Perfect costume, perfect makeup, perfect mask.
"Ava Milano?" The suit is back. "You're up first."
I grab my USB and follow him, smiling softly at the good luck wishes from the other girls. As we walk down the hallway, I run through the steps in my head one last time.
Get the job. Gather intel. Get out.
Simple.
So why does it feel like I'm walking into a trap?
The main floor is different in the harsh overhead lights, all the mystery stripped away, leaving nothing but reality. Just me, the pole, and way too many eyes watching from the shadows.
"Music?" The sound guy barely glances up from his booth.
I hand over my USB, trying to ignore how my heartbeat has synced with the clicking of my heels. "Track three."
The opening notes of my audition piece fill the space. I chose something slow and sultry with a heavy bass line. I've done this routine dozens of times, but something feels different today. The air is heavier, charged with something I can't quite name.
Focus. You're a dancer. This is just another audition.
I start simple, with a slow walk around the pole, letting my body flow with the music. Every movement is calculated, precise.
This isn't about being sexy. It's about control and command of the audience. It’s about power.
I learned early on that men don't just want beauty—they want to watch something they can't have.
The first spin comes naturally, my body remembering what my mind wants to forget. Up, around, extend, hold. The cool metal against my skin feels familiar, grounding.
For a moment, I let myself get lost in the pure physicality of the dance, in the way my muscles know exactly what to do.
A figure moves in the VIP section, drawing my attention. Male, expensive suit, radiating authority. The boss, probably. I adjust my angle slightly, making sure he gets a good view of the next combination.
The music builds, and I move with it. Each trick flows into the next—climbs, spins, inversions. My body tells a story of strength wrapped in silk, of danger masquerading as grace. I can feel the energy in the room shifting, the quality of attention changing from clinical to captivated.
Good. Keep them watching. Keep them?—
The music cuts off mid-beat, leaving me suspended in an inversion. The silence rings in my ears, heavy with possibility.
Heat creeps up my neck as I lower myself gracefully to the ground. This is it—the moment they tell me I'm not what they're looking for. I've been through enough auditions to know what a music cut usually means.
But something's wrong. The energy in the room has shifted again, turning sharp and electric. The figure in the VIP section stands and my heart stutters.
No.
No, no, no.
I know those eyes, that walk, that barely contained power. I've spent years trying to forget them.