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My lunch threatens to make a reappearance as I listen to the quiet pings of the elevator indicating the passage of each floor. The air smells faintly of lavender and I glance around the dark oak paneling and shiny silver railing, everything immaculately clean with no dust or smudges.

I guess I shouldn’t expect anything less at the retreat for the rich and the famous here at The Orchid.

Belle came through when I called her earlier.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to lend you money?” she offered. “I’d need to let my parents know with that large of a sum, but it’s no trouble.”

I shook my head, even though she couldn’t see me. Money has destroyed friendships and relationships and I couldn’t risk that with her. She means too much to me. I also don’t want her to see us at our lowest. This is a mess we need to get ourselves out of, not something others should help us with.

“Thanks, Belle. But I need to do this on my own. You said she’s expecting my call?”

Belle let out a sigh. “I knew you would be this stubborn. And yes, Sofia Kent is expecting your call. I don’t frequent The Orchid a lot, but Sofia manages the Rose floors, and some of their dancers and companions come to us for custom designs and fittings.

When I called her earlier, she said she had a position open which needed to be filled immediately and she could front a loan.

I don’t know what that position is, but you can call and find out. ”

Sofia has asked me to meet her on the lowest level of the Rose floors, which is situated toward the top of the fifty-plus story building.

An interview. To be a dancer. One that’ll require me to shed my clothes.

I swallow, the nausea churning in my gut, and I can feel the sweat beading on the back of my neck.

A weight sits atop my chest as I realize this is a pivotal moment in my life, because I’m about to embark on something I thought I’d never do.

To use my face and body to make a living instead of my intelligence.

My thoughts flit to Mom and her years as a dancer on Broadway. In the good years, she’d have supporting roles. In the bad years, I’d see her dancing in burlesque clubs, where men would leer at her curves.

Her eyes would dim then.

I let out a shaky breath. Snap out of it, Grace. Whatever happens, this is only temporary. You can go back to working in finance later.

But still, the anvil on top of my chest presses down, making it hard for me to breathe.

The elevator doors slide open and I walk up to the receptionist, a beautiful redhead in a tasteful, black body-con dress, who smiles in a welcoming way when she sees me.

“I have an appointment with Sofia Kent.”

Awareness dawns in her eyes and she asks me to take a seat in one of the tufted armchairs in the room.

The lobby is beautiful. Classy. Ivory marble floors with intricately designed medallions of black and gold coloring.

The walls are white panels with delicately carved gold vines traveling up to the ceiling before swirling into a geometric design, which is the backdrop for a massive crystal chandelier.

The place is dripping in luxury. I’m sure even the lamps in this place cost more than one month’s rent. I guess later today, I can tell Taylor I’ve finally made it inside The Orchid.

I remember passing by the modern building on 5 th Avenue with Taylor when we were teenagers.

We’d gape at the lofty exteriors, a structure seemingly constructed entirely of glass, which, aside from the front doors, was coated with a substance preventing bystanders from seeing the inside.

Doormen dressed in the finest livery stood in front of the doors, their bearing tall, shoulders back, like they were proud to work there.

Rumors abound as to what’s inside the building, the haven for the super-rich and superelite from all over the globe.

Supposedly, if you want injections and cosmetic services from the best plastic surgeons in the world, all you need to do is make an appointment with their on-site spa clinic and you’d walk out looking ten years younger with the public being none the wiser.

I’d heard about the scrumptious cuisine found within the Michelin-starred restaurants inside. In fact, it’s the only place in the world where a single building houses five Michelin-starred restaurants, all serving different international flavors in the heart of Manhattan.

Taylor and I would try to peek in from the outside, only to be dragged away by the doormen and given a terse warning.

We wanted to see if the rumors were true.

If we could spot celebrities lingering in the lobby.

If people were pampered and their worries disappeared once they stepped through those doors.

I’d tell her as we walked amongst the throngs of tourists headed toward Central Park, someday I’d make it and I’d be able to enter this exclusive establishment and would tell her all about it.

We’d sample fancy cocktails from their various wine and spirit bars and do whatever rich people do when they had free time.

And I’d be able to do it because I’d have gotten there by myself, without depending on anyone.

I let out a heavy sigh as I see a tall, graceful woman with brown hair wearing a tailored gray sheath dress striding toward me with a sharpness in her green eyes.

“Hello Grace, I’m Sofia. Nice to meet you. Come, follow me.”

After a brief, confident handshake, I follow her as she walks back in the direction where she came from .

A few corridors and turns later, we settle in her office, where she clasps her hands and looks at me expectantly.

“So, tell me why you’re here.”

I fiddle with my hands on my lap. “I need a job and my friend, Annabelle Law-McKenzie, mentioned you have an opening on the Rose floors. I’d like to be considered.”

She quirks a brow. “I know we didn’t go into details on the phone, but this job is a dancer at Trésor, which is our burlesque club.”

I swallow and remain silent. My heart sinks at hearing the official confirmation of what this job entails.

“What’s your background, Grace? Do you have any experience dancing?”

“I’m a finance major at NYUC. My mom was a performer on the Broadway stage when she was younger and she was also a burlesque dancer.

While I didn’t have official training, she taught my sister and me rudimentary ballet and jazz when we were kids.

I’m not a professional, but I’d like to think I can dance fairly well. ”

She cocks her head to the side and stares at me for a few seconds, as if she’s trying to read my facial expressions. I fight to remain still, poised, and neutral. Anything to prevent her from seeing the myriad of emotions inside me—the sadness, nervousness…disappointment at life’s events.

“I’m good at reading people. You don’t seem to fit the profile of our usual candidates for the job. You look like you belong on Wall Street. Why are you here?”

I heave out an exhale and lean forward. “To tell you the truth, my family is in a dire situation and I’m in need of a good amount of money in a very short timeframe.

My job offer at Pietra Capital fell through at the last minute and I’m in a bind.

When I called Belle, she mentioned your name.

At this point, I’m willing to do anything.

I’m a hard worker and I’m a professional. You won’t regret hiring me.”

Sofia hums under her breath. “How much do you need?”

I give her the sum, and she doesn’t bat an eyelash at it .

“That can be arranged via a loan but will require you to be employed with us for at least two years. But before we get there, I need to see you dance. It’s an interview or audition after all.”

She opens her drawer and takes out a skimpy bikini, the black triangles barely big enough to cover any private areas. She sets it in front of me. “Change into this in the back and come back out.”

My body freezes as I eye those tiny scraps of clothing, something I would never, ever wear normally.

“You don’t have to do this, you know. The actual costumes are much skimpier,” she says gently.

Her words jolt me into movement and I grit my teeth. I can do this. If Mom could do it, so can I. Without a word, I grab the bikini and head toward the restroom in the back, shed my clothes, and slip it on.

I glance at myself in the mirror, and a sudden urge to cry nearly overcomes me. My breasts are on full display, the tiny triangles cover my nipples and the bottom half of my swells. The bottoms are slim, barely concealing my slit.

Cold sweat breaks out on my skin as the burning sensation in my eyes doesn’t appear to abate. My mind drifts back to all the men in the past who leered at my curves and made disgusting comments, and I know life is about to get much, much worse.

Blinking rapidly, I breathe in long inhales, followed by longer exhales.

I can do this. This is just a costume. This is not who you are, Grace.

This is an act. Just pretend you’re an actress.

I keep repeating the affirmations in my mind as I focus on my breathing, and I see a faint flush returning to my otherwise pale face.

Squaring my shoulders, I stride out, faking the confidence I don’t really have.

If I’m going to do this, I’ll be the best dancer they’ll ever have.

Sofia’s eyes widen, no doubt from my change in demeanor, and a small smile appears on her lips. “Good. Very good. I thought perhaps you changed your mind. ”

She plays a soft jazz piece and instructs, “Pretend you’re on a stage in front of our clientele and dance.”

The beats are slow. Sultry. My heart races inside me as I attempt to turn off all the noise in my head. This is a task. A job. Focus on that.