HIS STRIPPER, HIS WIFE novel Chapter 2

Chapter two

Bianca

Fred finished his call and set the phone down carefully. “You still remember how to work the VIP rooms?”

I nodded slowly, not trusting my voice. The VIP rooms were different. Private. One on one performances for the club’s wealthiest clients. The rules were strict, no touching, but the dances were more intimate, more personal.

The tips were also significantly better. I had only worked VIP a handful of times before I quit, but I had been good at it. Really good.

“I have a client in thirty minutes. Very important client and a very generous tipper.” Fred’s gaze was steady, “You mess this up, you’re out. You do well, we can talk about a temporary arrangement. A few weeks, like you said.”

“I’ll do it.” The words came out stronger than I felt.

“The client requested our best. He’s particular, doesn’t talk much, watches the whole time, never touches. I heard he tips a minimum of five hundred per session if you’re good or even more if you follow the rules.”

Five hundred dollars? My mind raced. If I could book this client multiple times, if I could pick up other VIP sessions, if I worked every single night, I might actually be able to make the deposit in time. I might be able to save Emma.

“I’ll be exceptional,” I said, and I meant it. I would be whatever I needed to be to get that money.

Fred smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Get ready. Jessica will show you which room. And Bianca? Don’t make me regret this.”

I nodded and left his office, my hands shaking as I walked toward the dressing room. I felt like I was floating outside my body, watching myself make choices I had promised I would never make again. But what choice did I have? Let Emma die to keep my pride intact?

The other girls were getting ready for the evening shift, and a few glanced at me with surprise. “Bianca’s back,” someone muttered. I ignored her.

Jessica, one of the senior dancers, waved me over. She was in her early thirties, beautiful in a sharp, untouchable way that I had always admired. “Heard Fred’s putting you in VIP Room Three. That’s the Iceman’s room.”

“The Iceman?” A chill ran down my spine.

“That’s what we call him. Comes in maybe twice a month. Never smiles, never talks, just watches like he’s made of stone. Tips like crazy though.” Jessica handed me a key to a locker. “Your stuff’s still here, by the way. Fred kept it. He was so confident you’d be back eventually.”

I didn’t know if that made me want to laugh or cry. Maybe both.

I opened the locker and found my old outfits, my makeup kit, everything exactly as I had left it, like the past eight months of trying to be someone different had never happened.

I pulled out a black lace set and started getting ready, my hands moving through the familiar routine even as my stomach churned. Foundation, contour, dramatic eyes and red lips.

In the mirror, I watched myself transform from exhausted older sister into Scarlett, my stage name. The name I had chosen because it sounded like money and confidence and someone who had her life together.

Twenty minutes later, Jessica knocked on the dressing room door. “He’s here. Room Three. You’re up.”

I took a deep breath, checked my reflection one last time, and walked down the hallway. My heels clicked against the marble floor. The music from the main stage faded as I reached the VIP section.

Room Three’s door was heavy with gold handles. I pressed my palm against it, feeling the cool metal, and sent up a silent prayer to parents who couldn’t hear me anymore. Please let me be good enough. Please let this work.

I pushed it open.

The room was dimly lit, all deep reds and blacks, designed to feel intimate and expensive. A leather chair sat against the far wall, and in it sat a man who made my breath catch in my throat.

He was young. Maybe early thirties. Dark hair styled perfectly, strong jaw, and the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers or billboards. He wore a suit that probably cost more than my life at this point, and when his eyes met mine, I understood instantly why they called him the Iceman.

Those eyes were beautiful and completely empty. Cold. Like looking into winter itself.

He didn’t smile or move, he just watched me with an expression that made me feel both invisible and completely exposed at the same time.

I had thirty minutes to make this man feel entertained, thirty minutes to earn five hundred dollars.

I stepped inside and let the door close behind me with a soft click that sounded like a cell door locking.

“Hi,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I’m Scarlett.”

I turned back to face him. “The time is up already.”

“I want more time.” He didn’t ask. He stated it as a fact.

My heart started racing. More time meant more money. “That will cost extra.”

He reached down beside his chair and pulled out a small leather bag I hadn’t noticed before. He opened it and pulled out several thick bundles of cash, placing them on the table beside his glass.

My eyes widened, it looked like five thousand dollars or maybe more.

I didn’t think at all, my feet moved on their own, carrying me back to the center of the room. I started dancing again, my movements more intimate. This was more money than I had expected to make in a week.

I danced through two more songs, pushing myself harder than before. My muscles screamed in protest, but I ignored them.

Then he spoke again. “Move closer.”

I stopped dancing, my breathing ragged. “That’s against the rules,,” I said. “I can’t get too close to clients.”

He didn’t argue, he just reached into the bag again and pulled out more bundles. He placed them on the table with the others. There had to be at least ten thousand dollars sitting there now.

Ten freaking thousand dollars.

My mind raced, the rules were clear, no physical contact and maintain distance. But Fred had said this client was important. And ten thousand dollars would cover more than half of Emma’s deposit.

I looked at the money, then at the Iceman. His face was still blank, but there was something in his eyes now. Something hungry that hadn’t been there before.

My hands were shaking as I took one step forward. Then another. The space between us shrank until I was standing close enough to smell his cologne, expensive and oudy, mixing with the whiskey on his breath.

“How close?” My voice came out as barely a whisper.