Every time he touches me, I forget who I'm supposed to be.
This will be the third time in a row he has paid for my services. Every time I come into his bed, he holds me, caresses me—he's very gentle. Then once we're done, he cuddles me like we're lovers.
Is he just lonely?
It's not uncommon for men to share a passionate night with a stripper in hopes of getting the next one free. But this man isn't one of them. He pays double the price and even booked me for a week before we ever shared a bed.
He always makes sure I consent to everything. He speaks to me with respect. He touches me like my body is gold. Kisses me like he's afraid I'll break. He spoils me—takes me shopping, buys whatever I want, has the chef make anything I'd like.
I work at a strip club exclusively for people in dangerous fields—criminals, politicians, the works. I've had moments where I was hurt so badly I almost died. It f***** up my mental health.
But with this man… I feel human again. Cherished. Respected.
That's why I leave every night—with tears in my eyes—even when I don't want to.
What happens when he gets bored? Will he leave me? Abandon me like discarded trash?
One thing I know from experience: men can't be trusted.
But this man—laying in bed with me, hands on my waist, keeping me warm—I just want to stay. I want to know I'm safe. I want someone I can depend on.
It's foolish to want a future with someone I barely know. But I know I'm not imagining the passion in his eyes.
Does he feel it too?
His grunt brought me back to the present. He was awake. That meant it was time to leave.
He pulled me closer, wrapping me in warmth.
This is just too cruel.
Why make me feel loved, only to send me away when the sun rises?
I couldn't help but wonder—if I wasn't a stripper, if we met some other way… could we have been lovers?
"Good morning," he said in a low voice.
I turned to him with a bitter smile. "Good morning."
He stared at me intensely.
"Are you going to make me leave again?" I grumbled.
The worst part about this kind of situation is how easily the lines blur. Anyone seeing us now would think we were in a relationship.
"That's the agreement," he said sternly.
He leaned in for a kiss, but I pushed him back and got off the bed, picking up my clothes.
"You're not even going to say goodbye?" he asked as I got dressed and headed for the door.
"That's not the agreement," I replied coldly.
"Even though—"
"Make no mistake," I said sharply, meeting his eyes. "We're not lovers."
He stood and walked toward me, something shifting in his expression. He raised his hand, pinning me lightly against the door.
"But what if we were?"
"What?" I blinked, confused.
"What if we were lovers? Would you say goodbye to me then?"
His words threw me off balance. Was I hurt? Angry? Hopeful?
"Do you really want to be lovers because of that?"
"No, that would be ridiculous."
"Huh?" Is he just playing with me?
"What is wrong with you—"
He pulled me in, closing the space between us.
"Farah," he whispered, "I take you very seriously. And I mean this—
Let's be lovers."
"Are you... being serious?" I held my breath.
"Yes, Farah."
The silence that followed was deafening.
The sun had risen, spilling into the room and burning my eyes with its brightness—
even then, I couldn't look away.
"I don't know how to—" he started.
A phone call interrupted.
He turned to the telecom beside the bed and answered it.
"Golden Black," he said after a few moments.
What's going on?
He hung up and turned to me.
"Farah, I have to go. We can talk more when I get back."
He moved quickly, dressing in a rush. As he reached for the door, I gripped his arm.
"When will you get back?" I asked.
There were so many more important questions.
But in this line of work, knowing too much can get you killed.
"I'd say a few weeks," he said as he opened the door.
"Come. I'll drop you off."
He held my hand as we hurried to his car.
There was something about the urgency in his steps that set my nerves on edge.
Once inside, he made three more calls.
Beads of sweat slid down his chin. His leg tapped restlessly.
He fidgeted with the steering wheel.
Something felt... off.
A glimmer caught my eye—something inside the car.
That symbol... it looked oddly familiar.
What does it remind me of?
I met his gaze. He raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothing," I said quickly.
The rest of the ride was silent.
When we reached my place, he kissed me—and slipped something into my hand.
"What is this?" I whispered.
"I love you," he said, kissing me again.
He smiled faintly. "Never lose it."
I stared at him in disbelief, tightening my grip on the object.
"Aaron… is everything okay?"
He looked at me like I was the one acting strange.
"Well, of course it is. It's me," he said, laughing it off.
"You should get off here."
"Ah... okay." I stepped out slowly.
I looked back several times as I approached my house.
Each time, he was still watching me, still smiling.
This was… very unlike him.
When I finally reached my gate, I turned one last time.
He waved.
My chest tightened.
Something inside me twisted, a gut feeling too strong to ignore—
something I picked up on... too late.
I smiled back, my hands trembling.
I stepped inside, closed the gate, and stood there—frozen, listening.
As soon as I heard his car speed off, my knees buckled.
Hot tears spilled.
My chest constricted, and I struggled to breathe through the tears.
I coughed, crouching, gripping the thing he'd given me.
This feeling—
It was familiar. Too familiar.
I looked up at the sky, eyes blurred. My fingers moved on their own, desperate to hold onto something real.
I opened the pouch. Pulled out the object.
It was blurry. I wiped my tears, forced my eyes to focus.
It was…
A snake key.
"Aaron… what the f*ck?"