Lemons and Roses

Chapter 1

Rue’s P.O.V

“Rue!! Over here!”

Zia’s voice cuts through the noise of the street like something warm in a place that suddenly feels too cold. She is standing across the road, waving with both hands, her face lit up in a grin so wide it almost hurts to look at.

I don’t move immediately.

My feet stay rooted where I am, just a few steps away from the prison gates. High concrete walls stretch behind me, topped with coils of barbed wire. Guards patrol like shadows that never really sleep. I stare at it for a moment longer than I should.

Ten years.

Ten years of waking up to those walls, of counting time in footsteps, in locked doors, in shouted orders. Ten years of learning how to exist in a place that never wanted me to feel human.

And now… I’m supposed to be free.

But freedom doesn’t feel like anything I recognise. It doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like standing in an empty room and forgetting why you walked in.

I turn away and cross the road.

Zia meets me halfway.

The moment she reaches me, she pulls me into a hug so tight I almost lose my balance. She smells the same—soap, soft perfume, something familiar I can’t place properly but immediately miss.

“I missed you sooo much,” she says, her voice shaking slightly.

I hesitate before returning the hug, my arms wrapping around her slowly, like I’m remembering how.

“Me too,” I manage.

She pulls back and studies my face like she’s trying to make sure I’m real. “Jason wanted to come, but he had to pick up the kids. They’ve been so excited to meet you.”

The kids.

For a second, I just blink at her.

Zia and Jacob have kids now. Four years old and two. I missed the wedding. I missed birthdays. I missed everything that happened while my life was frozen.

“I’m excited to meet them too,” I say, forcing a small smile.

We get into the car. Zia drives.

The ride is quiet, but not uncomfortable. More like a silence that is careful, like neither of us knows which version of me to speak to yet.

Outside the window, The city moves fast—honking horns, street vendors, people laughing too loudly, life continuing without hesitation. I watch it all like I’m seeing it for the first time.

When we stop, I don’t realise immediately.

I just sit there, staring at the house.

My parents’ house.

The paint looks newer, the gate slightly different, but it is still the same place. The same place I left as someone else entirely.

“You know you can stay with us, right?” Zia says gently.

I realise I’ve been holding the key in my hand without moving.

“I know,” I say quietly. “But I need to figure things out on my own.”

She doesn’t argue. Just nods like she understands more than she says.

“Okay. Get settled. We’ll have dinner tomorrow.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

She smiles, then drives off.

And suddenly, I am alone.

The house is too quiet.

That’s the first thing I notice.

Not peaceful. Not calm. Just… empty in a way that makes my skin feel too tight.

At 5:14 a.m., I’m still awake.

The mattress is soft—too soft. The sheets smell like fabric conditioner. Everything is clean. Everything is safe.

And yet my body refuses to believe it.

There are no footsteps in the corridor. No shouted counts. No metal doors slamming shut like final words. No barking dogs cutting through the night.

Just silence.

I’ve already drunk five glasses of water. I’ve already gone to the bathroom three times. I’ve traced patterns on the ceiling until they stopped making sense.

My mind keeps waiting for something to happen.

Nothing does.

Freedom, I’m learning, is not something you instantly know how to live inside.

“Rue?”

I look up from the chopping board.

Zia is beside me in the kitchen. It’s evening now. Jason and the kids are in the living room, their laughter spilling in every now and then like something fragile and bright.

“Hmm?”

She hesitates before speaking, like she’s stepping around something sharp. “Do you have any plans?”

I keep my eyes on the vegetables. “For now, I’ll try to get a job. Take it slow.”

She nods quickly, almost relieved. “I can help. I know people. I can make calls—”

“No,” I say, a little too fast. Then I soften my voice. “It’s fine. I don’t want anything from my past attaching itself to you.”

Zia frowns. “Rue… you are not a bad reputation.”

I finally look at her.

Her eyes are glossy, like she’s holding back too many things at once.

“Can we just not talk about it?” I ask quietly.

A pause.

Then she nods. “Okay.”

Dinner happens with noise that feels far away from me. The kids talk endlessly, Jason tries to include me gently, Zia keeps glancing at me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she looks away too long. I answer when I can. Smile when it’s necessary.

But mostly, I just sit there.

Two weeks pass.

I send out applications every day. I refresh my email like it owes me something. I get nothing back.

Until today.

My first interview.

I didn’t sleep.

Again.

At 7:12 a.m., I am already dressed, standing in front of the mirror. I rehearsed answers I found online, whispered them into the quiet of my room like they might change my past.

My hands shake slightly as I pick up my resume.

It’s thin. Almost embarrassing.

8:00 a.m.

I arrive early.

The office is too bright, too polished. Everything smells like money and confidence.

The woman interviewing me barely looks up when I sit down.

“Miss Rue Bennett,” she says flatly, scanning my file. “You haven’t worked for ten years?”

My mouth goes dry.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why?”

I swallow. “I wasn’t able to work.”

A pause.

“Why weren’t you able to work?”

The truth sits heavy in my chest. I could lie. I could make it softer. Easier.

But it comes out before I can stop it.

“I was confined.”

Her eyes sharpen slightly. “Confined? In a hospital?”

“No, ma’am.”

A beat.

“In prison.”

The word lands differently in the room. Heavier. Final.

She leans back slowly, taking off her glasses like she needs to see me more clearly now.

“Miss Bennett,” she says, her tone colder. “Do you understand what kind of company this is?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you still came here?”

I try to speak, but my voice doesn’t come out properly. “I just needed a job. I didn’t think—”

She laughs once. Not amused. Not kind.

“You didn’t think? You think we hire criminals because they ‘need a job’?”

My stomach twists painfully.

“You could steal from us. Or sell information. Or worse.”

I can’t defend myself. Every word I had prepared disappears.

“Cat got your tongue?” she snaps. Then, louder: “Next!”

An assistant rushes in, already calling another name.

And just like that, I am erased from the room.

Chapter 2

It had been three days since the interview.

Zia asked about it once, carefully, like she was trying not to press on something already bruised. I told her they didn’t hire me because of the gap in my CV. I didn’t tell her about the way the woman looked at me, or the word criminal thrown around like it was carved into my skin.

She accepted it. Or at least she pretended to.

That Monday morning, I woke up earlier than usual and checked my email out of habit, not expectation.

Two interview invitations.

Then another one later that day.

Three interviews scheduled across the week.

For a moment, I just sat there staring at the screen, like if I blinked too hard they would disappear. It felt strange—almost like luck. Or maybe just coincidence. Either way, I didn’t question it.

If I was careful, if I showed up right, maybe one of them would look past the silence of my past ten years and see something else.

Something usable.

Something human.

The first rejection came gently.

“Miss Bennett, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but company policy doesn’t allow ex-convicts.”

The interviewer said it with what looked like pity. Or maybe discomfort. I couldn’t tell anymore. I had stopped trusting facial expressions.

“I understand,” I replied quietly.

And I left.

It wasn’t cruel like the first interview I had. It didn’t cut as deep. But somehow, it still stayed with me longer than it should have.

The words ex-convict followed me all the way home.

By the time I reached my fourteenth interview in two weeks, I stopped expecting anything different.

Sometimes they rejected me before I even finished sitting down. Sometimes they smiled politely while already deciding I didn’t belong there. After the fifth interview, I stopped hoping for acceptance.

I only hoped for less humiliation.

Zia still offered help. She said it more than once, in different ways—calls she could make, people she knew, small openings she could “check for me.”

Each time, I said no.

Not because I didn’t need help.

But because I didn’t trust what my name would do to her if it was attached to anything.

If I had any confidence left, I couldn’t feel it anymore. It was buried under polite refusals and closed doors.

Then I found it.

A small restaurant.

No big company name. No polished website. Just a simple advert: Staff needed.

I went in the next morning.

The woman behind the counter didn’t smile. She didn’t ask many questions either. She just looked me up and down like she was calculating whether I was worth the trouble.

“Ten dollars an hour,” she said finally. “You’ll do dishes, serve orders, clean after closing. Cleaning after hours isn’t paid. And you take out the trash.”

It wasn’t fair. Even I knew that.

The work was a lot for the pay. The restaurant looked busy enough to break anyone who stood there too long. But it was the first place in weeks that didn’t pause when they saw the gap in my CV.

Not even a question.

Not even a flicker of suspicion.

“I’ll take it,” I said quickly, before I could overthink it.

“Good,” she replied. “Get your ass in there and start taking orders.”

She tossed an apron at me like I was already part of the place.

Five days in, and my body already ached in ways I didn’t know existed.

My feet hurt constantly. My shoulders felt heavy even when I wasn’t lifting anything. My hands smelled like soap and oil no matter how many times I washed them.

But strangely… I was okay.

Or at least closer to okay than I had been in a long time.

The restaurant was chaos most days. Orders shouted across counters, plates clattering, customers impatient before they even sat down.

“Miss Bennett! Table six is waiting!”

“I’m coming!” I would answer, already moving.

“I Ordered fifteen minutes ago!” someone complained loudly.

“I’m sorry, it’ll be ready in five!”

I didn’t even recognise my own voice sometimes.

It was too busy for thinking. Too loud for memories.

And in that strange, exhausting noise, I found something that almost felt like life again.

It was the weekend when everything collapsed.

The place was packed—busier than I had ever seen it. Only me and Ben, a quiet high school boy who worked part-time and looked like he was permanently overwhelmed.

We were drowning.

Orders stacked faster than we could handle them. Customers grew impatient. The kitchen couldn’t keep up. I could feel the pressure building in my chest with every new shout.

“I placed my order thirty minutes ago!”

“I’m sorry! It’s coming!”

I turned too quickly, nearly dropping a tray.

And then—

“Miss Bennett!”

Juliet’s voice sliced through everything.

My stomach tightened immediately.

“In my office. Now.”

There was something in her tone that made my skin go cold. She hadn’t spoken like that before. Not exactly kind before, but not like this either.

I walked slowly, wiping my hands on my apron without even realising they were shaking.

Her office door was slightly open.

She was sitting inside with her legs crossed on the desk, flipping through a file like she already knew everything inside it.

“Miss Bennett,” she said without looking up.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I heard something about you,” she continued.

A pause.

“A little birdie told me something I hope isn’t true.”

My mouth went dry instantly.

“Can you explain the ten-year gap in your CV?”

The room felt smaller.

Ten seconds passed.

Then twenty.

My heartbeat grew louder than everything outside.

“Miss Bennett?” Her eyes lifted now. “Are you planning to answer, or should I just guess?”

I forced air into my lungs. My hands were sweating so badly I had to rub them against my apron.

“I was in prison,” I said finally.

Silence.

“You were in prison?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her expression didn’t change much. That was somehow worse.

“And you didn’t think to mention that before I hired a criminal?”

“I’m not a criminal,” I said quickly, before I could stop myself.

She tilted her head slightly. “Oh? What were you convicted for then?”

The words came out before I could swallow them back.

“Murder.”

For the first time, she looked mildly interested. Not shocked. Just… confirmed.

“So killing people doesn’t count as a crime anymore?”

Silence.

“I work hard,” I said, voice trembling now. “I never miss shifts. I even work through breaks. I don’t complain. I just… I just needed a chance.”

She let out a short laugh.

“A chance?” she repeated. “You think hard work erases that?”

My throat tightened.

“You could poison customers. You could snap at anyone who annoys you. Isn’t that what got you arrested?”

That sentence hit something deeper than I expected. Not because it was new—but because it sounded so certain. So final.

Like I had never changed.

Like I never could.

“I don’t do that,” I said quietly.

But she was already standing.

“Get your ass out of my restaurant,” she snapped. “Before I call the cops and send you right back where you came from.”

The last part didn’t even feel like words anymore. It felt like a door slamming.

I didn’t realise I was crying until something warm dropped onto my shirt.

I turned away quickly before anyone else could see.

I went back to the kitchen, took my bag from the corner, and walked out.

Chapter 3

At home, I stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in a towel, trying to wash off more than just sweat. The water didn’t help. It never really does. It only leaves you with a temporary silence before your thoughts come rushing back louder.

I was about to put my phone on silent when it vibrated.

Zia: I know you’re busy at work, just wanted to check in on you.

I stared at the message for a second too long.

Before I could reply, another came in.

Zia: Would you like to go out on your day off? Just you and me.

A small breath escaped me, almost a laugh, but not quite.

Zia had been like this since I came back. Consistent. Careful. Gentle in a way that sometimes felt like she was afraid I might break if she spoke too loudly.

At first, it was unbearable. We would sit together and fill silence with meaningless updates about life, both of us carefully stepping around the truth. Like there was something large and ugly sitting between us that neither of us had the courage to name.

We didn’t talk about prison. We didn’t talk about the past. We just… existed around it.

Somehow, over time, it became easier.

Not normal. Just easier.

Rue: sure, I’ll text you when I’m free.

The lie slid out without effort.

I was free. I had been free since Juliet’s restaurant ended the way it did.

But I didn’t want to say that. Not yet. Not to Zia.

I already knew what would happen if she heard it in my voice.

She would come running.

And I wasn’t ready for that kind of attention.

So I stayed inside.

Three days passed like that.

The longest journey I made was from my room to the kitchen. Sometimes I stood in the middle of the hallway for no reason, forgetting what I was doing halfway through walking.

I didn’t cry.

Not really.

That surprised me more than anything else.

Not even when I replayed Juliet’s voice in my head. Not even when I remembered the way people looked at me in interviews like I was something that had escaped containment.

I used to think I had no tears left. Like I had used them all up in prison during the first few years when everything still felt raw.

After that, crying became a luxury my body stopped offering.

By the fourth year inside, survival replaced everything else.

Survival, and Meredith.

Meredith had been the unofficial ruler of the prison. Everyone knew her name, even if they pretended not to. She wasn’t loud at first. She didn’t need to be. People like her don’t announce themselves—they just settle into power like it belongs to them.

They said her parents were murdered when she was young. That the killers were never caught. That she grew up alone, moving through life like a bruise that never healed.

They also said she worked in places no one talked about. That she learned early how to survive men who thought pain was entertainment.

One night, a man crossed her line.

He hurt her badly. Almost killed her. And somehow, in the chaos, she fought back harder than anyone expected. The man survived—but not in the way his family expected him to.

He lost something irreversible.

And because his family had power, the law didn’t care about her side of the story.

They sent her to prison.

That was where I met her.

At first, she made life unbearable for me. For all of us. She and her group turned everyday existence into something you had to endure rather than live through. Six years of that kind of pressure changes you. It reshapes your understanding of pain.

And then, one day, it stopped.

No explanation.

Later, someone whispered that she had learned my case. Not just what I did—but why.

After that, she started looking at me differently. Not softly. Just… differently.

We spoke sometimes after that. Not as enemies. Not quite as friends either. Just two people who understood what it meant to be damaged in ways you couldn’t explain cleanly.

She left after my eighth year.

I never saw her again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound pulled me back into the present so sharply I almost dropped my phone.

Before I could reach the door, it burst open.

Zia.

She looked like she had run the whole way here. Her hair slightly messy, her chest rising fast as she tried to catch her breath.

“Rue!”

I blinked at her. “You don’t have to shout. I’m right here.”

Her eyes scanned me quickly, like she was checking for injuries I didn’t have.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said immediately. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Her breathing was still uneven. “I went to the restaurant. Juliet told me things. You weren’t picking up your calls so I— I just came here.”

Something in her voice made my stomach tighten.

Not fear exactly.

Worry. Heavy, uncontrolled worry.

“I’m not working there anymore,” I said, shrugging like it was nothing. “I’ll just find something else.”

Her face changed instantly.

Like I had confirmed something she already suspected but didn’t want to believe.

“Rue…” Her voice broke slightly. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Tears gathered in her eyes before she could stop them.

“I want to be there for you, I— I—” She couldn’t finish. The words collapsed into a sob.

I stepped forward and pulled her into a hug before she could fall apart completely.

Her body shook against mine.

It took a while before her breathing slowed.

When she finally pulled back, I wiped her face gently with my thumb without thinking too much about it.

“How about that hangout you suggested?” I said softly, forcing a small smile. “I’m free now.”

She let out a watery laugh, wiping her eyes quickly. “Okay?”

“Okay.” she sniffed.

“Alright,Let me change and we’ll go.”

And for the first time in days, I followed her out of the house instead of staying inside it.

The next two months didn’t get easier.

They just… repeated.

CVs sent out. Emails checked. Interviews scheduled.

Then rejection.

Again.

And again.

Sometimes politely delivered, with soft smiles and “we wish you the best.” Other times, sharp enough to feel like insults carved into skin.

There were good days.

Good days meant polite rejections, or interviewers who at least pretended I was a normal candidate. Good days meant Zia, or her kids pulling me into their small chaotic world. Good days meant babysitting, where time moved differently and no one cared about my past.

Then there were bad days.

Bad days meant being told I didn’t deserve to stand in front of them.

One man said I should have been sentenced to death.

Another called security just to throw me out.

A woman once refused to let me leave the interview room until she called the police to verify I wasn’t on a wanted list.

Every time, I walked out quietly.

Every time, something inside me felt a little more worn down.

In the end, I wasn’t really living.

I was just… continuing.

Barely.

Chapter 4

Today I have another interview.

It is at a club uptown.

I don’t expect anything different this time. I have stopped expecting things to go well a long time ago. But I still went. I still showed up, still ironed one of my decent shirts, still forced myself into another room where people would decide what kind of life I was allowed to have.

Not because I believed in it.

Just because I had nothing else to do.

“Miss Bennett, you can come in tomorrow for your first shift.”

I blinked.

For a second, I didn’t process the words at all. They didn’t connect to anything inside my head.

The man behind the desk continued talking like he hadn’t just changed the direction of my entire week.

“Tasha will show you around today. She’ll train you for two weeks. You’ll be paid during training. Your shift runs from 6 p.m. to 5 a.m. If you have any issues, you can go to her or come to me. Is that okay, Miss Bennett?”

Okay?

I stared at him.

My mind kept trying to find the part where this became a misunderstanding. Where he suddenly said, actually no, wrong person, sorry.

Because that’s what usually happened.

Not this.

Not this easy.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

Did I hear him correctly?

Was I already hired?

My thoughts immediately went to Juliet. To the restaurant. To the way things had collapsed after I allowed myself to believe, even for a second, that I was safe somewhere.

A job always came with a countdown.

And I had learned not to trust countdowns.

“Mr… Cooper,” I started.

“Just Cooper,” he corrected, without looking up.

“Cooper,” I repeated carefully. “I think… maybe you didn’t notice something on my CV.”

He finally looked at me properly.

That alone made my chest tighten.

“Why do you think I didn’t notice?” he asked.

I hesitated.

“Because you didn’t ask.”

My voice sounded unsure even to me.

“I’ve been applying for jobs for a while,” I continued quickly, like if I slowed down I would lose courage. “People usually bring it up. The gap. Ten years. I… I was in prison. For murder. So I thought it’s better you know now. Before you decide to fire me later.”

Silence.

Not the soft kind.

The kind that feels like it has weight.

My heart started to race.

I waited for the change in his face. The disgust. The polite dismissal. The security call.

It didn’t come.

Instead, he leaned back slightly.

“I saw the gap,” he said simply.

My stomach dropped.

“I figured it wasn’t something good. You were convicted for murder...”

My hands tightened at my sides.

“But you’ve served your sentence,” he continued. “This is a club, Miss Bennett. Not a courtroom. Not a corporate office. Nobody here is a saint.”

His eyes held mine for a moment.

“What matters to me is simple. You show up. You do your job. You don’t cause problems for my staff or my customers. And I pay you.”

I stood still, barely breathing.

“You might be a psychopathic killer for all I care,” he added bluntly. “As long as you don’t act like one here, it’s not my business.”

That should have hurt.

It should have sounded cruel.

But instead…

It felt like something else entirely.

It felt like being seen without being judged at the same time.

Which was rare.

Uncomfortably rare.

My throat tightened before I even realised what was happening.

“Miss Bennett,” he said again, softer this time but still firm, “can you try to keep your emotions in check? I don’t like people crying in front of me.”

That was when I realised there were tears on my face.

I touched my cheek slowly, almost confused.

“Oh,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

I wiped my face quickly, embarrassed by how easily it had happened.

“I didn’t expect to get the job,” I said, letting out a shaky breath. “Thirty-one interviews… will do that to a person.”

Something almost like amusement crossed his face, but it didn’t turn into a smile.

“Well,” he said, “you won’t get judgment here. If you can serve drinks, I can pay you.”

For a second, I just stood there.

Then I nodded.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “Mr… sorry—Cooper.”

“You’re welcome.”

He leaned slightly toward the door. “Tasha!”

The door opened almost immediately.

“Miss me already, Coop?” a voice called before she even stepped in fully. “I saw you like two hours ago.”

A beautiful woman with red hair appeared in the doorway, holding a stack of papers and a pen tucked behind her ear. She looked relaxed, like she belonged exactly where she was.

“Two hours ago,” Cooper replied flatly, “I didn’t have a new employee. Get in here.”

She rolled her eyes but walked in anyway.

Then she looked at me.

“This is Rue,” Cooper said, gesturing toward me. “Rue, this is Tasha. You’ll be assigned to private booths. She’ll show you around today. You start properly tomorrow.”

“Hi,” Tasha said simply, nodding toward the door. “Come with me.”

I followed her.

The club was bigger than I expected.

Louder, too, even when it wasn’t full of people yet.

Tasha showed me everything without rushing. The private booths downstairs—dim lighting, soft seating, places where conversations were meant to disappear. The private rooms further back, locked and quieter, like secrets stored behind closed doors.

Upstairs, there was a lounge that overlooked the entire dance floor. Even empty, it felt alive. Like it was always waiting for something to begin.

“It gets crazy at night,” Tasha said casually as we walked. “But you’ll get used to it.”

I wasn’t sure I would ever get used to anything again.

But I nodded anyway.

By the time the tour ended, I realised I had been holding my breath in different parts of the building without noticing.

“Thanks,” I said when we reached the exit. “For showing me around.”

She gave a small shrug. “Don’t mention it. You seem alright.”

That simple sentence stayed with me longer than expected.

On my way home, I stopped by the bridge.

I had passed it earlier without paying attention, just another structure in a city full of them. But now, standing near it, I slowed down.

The river below moved calmly, like it had nothing to prove to anyone. The water reflected the sky in soft pieces of light.

I stepped closer to the edge.

The wind brushed my face gently.

For a long time, I just stood there.

No thoughts about prison. No interviews. No rejection.

Just silence.

And something unfamiliar sitting quietly under it.

Hope.

Not loud. Not certain.

Just a small, fragile possibility that maybe things could still change.

Maybe I wasn’t done yet.

Maybe I could still live.

I closed my eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and let myself hold onto that thought—carefully, like something that could break if I gripped it too hard.

This has to be it, this has to be the sign I’ve been waiting on.

Chapter 5

Four months at the club had passed in a way I didn’t expect.

Not peacefully—but steadily.

Like life had stopped trying to punish me every second.

Cooper had been right about one thing: people here didn’t really care who you were, as long as you did your job.

Word got around when I first started, of course. It always does. People talk. But nothing changed. No one looked at me differently in a way that made me feel smaller.

The girls especially refused to let anyone stay on the outside.

Britney was the first to pull me in.

She talked too much—about everything. Her childhood, her first period, her first boyfriend she described as a “walking disappointment with a mouth that never shut.” I learned quickly that Britney didn’t believe in privacy, not even her own.

Too late, I realised that meant she also didn’t believe in mine.

Because the day I told her about my past, I didn’t just tell Britney.

I told everyone.

By the next morning, I walked into the staff room and found what they called a “consoling session.” Every stripper in the club had opinions, advice, and surprisingly strong emotions about my story. Even Tasha had said something like, “he deserved it.”

I disagreed.

But I didn’t argue too much.

Mostly because I suspected that if I did, they would sit me down again and explain at least twelve alternative ways I could have “handled it better.”

“Rue, you’ll be serving the private rooms tonight,” Tasha announced, going through assignments like she always did before a shift.

I nodded, tightening my apron.

The club had changed slightly since I started. Cooper had introduced rotation shifts—booths, lounge, private rooms. No one stayed in one place too long anymore. Tasha said it was to “balance exposure,” but I think it was also so no one got too comfortable anywhere.

Comfort was rare here.

And maybe that was safer.

At first, I worked booths. Then lounges. Eventually, private rooms.

And that was where things got complicated.

A week ago, Mr Richardson happened.

He was one of the regular VIPs. The kind of man who always sat like he owned the air around him. I had noticed his eyes before—lingering too long, too often—but I told myself it was just the usual male attention that came with this job.

I had learned to ignore that kind of look.

The first time, he spanked me while I was serving drinks.

Just like that.

Like I wasn’t a person standing there.

I froze, then stepped back quickly, forcing a polite smile and telling him it wasn’t appropriate. He laughed it off, like it was a joke I didn’t understand.

I told myself he was drunk.

The second day was worse.

He asked me how much it would cost for me to get on my knees and “prove I was useful.”

My stomach turned, but I didn’t react. I tried to walk away.

That was when he grabbed my wrist.

Hard.

He leaned in too close, voice low and ugly, saying things I didn’t want to remember, things that made my skin crawl long after he stopped speaking.

I pulled away eventually. My heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear anything else.

Straight after that, I went to Cooper.

I reported everything.

He said he spoke to Richardson.

And that it wouldn’t happen again.

But trust doesn’t come easily when your entire life has taught you that promises are just temporary pauses before worse things happen.

Tonight, I didn’t feel calm.

I tried to.

But my body remembered things my mind wanted to forget.

“Can I do booths or the lounge instead?” I asked Tasha quietly. “Just for tonight?”

She looked at me for a moment, then sighed.

“Rue, he promised to behave.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m comfortable,” I said.

“It’s been two weeks,” she replied. “You’ve worked the other areas more than enough. You still have to do private rooms eventually. Avoiding it won’t change anything.”

She paused, then added more gently, “At least this way you’ll see for yourself that it’s over.”

I didn’t agree.

But I nodded anyway.

Because arguing wouldn’t change the schedule.

The night went on.

Busy. Loud. Controlled chaos.

And for a while, I almost believed maybe she was right.

Mr Richardson didn’t approach me.

He didn’t touch me.

He didn’t say anything.

Just watched.

Always watched.

Like patience was part of his plan.

That alone made my skin stay tight all night.

A few hours befo