Chapter 2

Isla let the curtain fall shut behind her before she let herself smile.

Ten seconds. That was all she needed to put her face back together, to trade the girl who’d just sat through her mother’s dining room for the one who got paid to make rich men forget their own names. By the time she crossed the room, there was nothing left of the first girl at all.

“You asked for the silver set,” she said, sliding onto the seat across from him instead of beside him. Distance first. Always distance first. “I’m told that’s a specific request.”

“It was.”

Rhys didn’t look at her the way most of them did. No quick, hungry scan, top to bottom, like he was pricing a car. He watched her face instead. Steady. Unbothered. Like he had nowhere else in the world to be, which, for a man Beatrice described as constantly mid-crisis over some deal in Singapore, struck Isla as almost funny.

“Most men don’t bother with a name,” she said. “They just point.”

“I’m not most men.”

“They all say that too.”

That got something out of him. Not quite a laugh, just the shape of one, there and gone at the corner of his mouth. Isla tucked it away like currency—something to spend later.

“What do they call you?” he asked.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“I’m asking.”

“Silk.” The name came easy. It always did. Nobody in this room got the real one.

“Silk,” he repeated, like he was testing the weight of it. “That’s not your name.”

“It’s the one you get.”

He leaned back against the booth, unhurried, one arm stretched along the top of it, and studied her with an attention that felt different from the usual VIP-room attention. Less like being undressed, more like being read. Isla didn’t love it. It made the ground under her performance feel less solid than she liked.

A waitress came and went with a bottle he barely glanced at, leaving two glasses neither of them touched. Isla let the silence sit a beat longer than she normally would, curious despite herself whether he’d fill it first. He didn’t. Most men couldn’t stand a silence in this room for more than a few seconds before they started performing for her. Rhys just watched her, patient, like the silence itself was information.

So she went on the offensive instead.

“You come here often?” she asked, voice dropped into the low, teasing register that worked on ninety percent of the men who sat in that booth. “Or is tonight special?”

“First time in months.”

“Bad breakup?”

She said it lightly. A joke. A line she’d used a hundred times on a hundred different men who liked being asked, liked pretending their money bought sympathy along with everything else.

Something flickered across his face. Fast. Gone before she could name it.

“Something like that,” he said.

Isla noted it and kept moving, because that was the game. You didn’t chase the flinch, you let it sit there and worked around it, made him wonder if you’d caught it at all. She uncrossed her legs, recrossed them the other way, watched his eyes track the movement and then, again, come back up to her face.

“So what does a man who doesn’t come here often want, on the one night he shows up?”

“Quiet.”

Isla laughed. “You paid for quiet?”

“No.”

He looked at her.

“I paid for you.”

There it was. The opening. Every session had one, the moment where the client stopped performing for himself and let something real slip through, and Isla had learned to walk through that door before it closed again.

“Tell me something first,” she said. “The girl who isn’t here tonight. The one you didn’t bring.”

His jaw tightened, just barely, just enough that a stranger wouldn’t have caught it. Isla wasn’t a stranger to that particular tell. She’d grown up watching her own family do the same thing every time someone mentioned Mason at a holiday table.

“There’s no girl,” Rhys said.

Liar, Isla thought, and felt something settle into place inside her, cold and satisfied, like a lock turning. She knew exactly who the girl was. She’d grown up in the same house as her.

“My mistake,” she said sweetly, and let it go, because pushing now would be sloppy, and Isla didn’t do sloppy. Not for this.

The session ran long. Longer than she billed him for, though she’d square that with Denny later. Rhys asked questions that weren’t the usual questions. Not about her body, not about what she’d do for the right price, but about the club, about how long she’d been dancing, about whether she liked it. She gave him just enough truth to keep him leaning in and buried the rest under a smile.

When his car came for him near midnight, he paused at the curtain, hand on the fabric, and looked back at her with something unreadable in his face.

“I hope you’re here next week,” he said.

Beatrice would lose her mind if she could see this.

Isla thought of the photo on Beatrice’s phone. Gold light. His hand at her sister’s back. *He’s not a man who does anything halfway.*

“Maybe I will be,” Isla said.

“Give me one reason I should bother finding out.”

She smiled. “Because I’m expensive.”

He didn’t even blink. “I’m aware.”

He left smiling. Isla stood alone in the private room a moment longer, listening to the bass thrum through the wall, and let herself feel it: the small, sharp thrill of a plan clicking into its first real gear.

This was the part she’d been waiting for, if she was honest with herself. Not the man. The thrill of it. Beatrice had taken Mason without a second thought, without ever once looking back to see what she’d left behind, and their parents had called it nothing, called it kids being kids, called it anything except what it actually was.

Eight years of watching Beatrice collect things that used to matter to Isla and repackage them as things Beatrice had simply deserved more. Isla had spent eight years being the sister who didn’t fight back, because fighting back had never once gotten her anything except a reputation for being difficult.

She was done being difficult for nothing. If Beatrice wanted to build her whole identity out of having what other people wanted, then Isla intended to finally show her exactly what it felt like to lose something that way.

Rhys wasn’t the point. Rhys was simply the most effective instrument available, expensive and unbothered and entirely unaware that he’d already been cast in someone else’s long-overdue reckoning.

Her phone buzzed once backstage, a name she’d already decided not to deal with tonight. She silenced it and opened Instagram instead, out of habit more than intention.

Beatrice’s newest post filled the screen. Another smiling picture with Rhys, his arm around her waist, both of them lit up under string lights at some rooftop bar.

*Forever starts with the right person.*

Isla stared at the photo for a long moment.

Then she laughed, quiet enough that no one backstage turned to look.

“You have no idea where your forever spent tonight.”