I stumbled into my apartment at 4 AM, the last remnants of club music still buzzing in my head. My heels clicked against the hardwood floor, each step a rhythmic reminder of the night's earnings. I dropped my purse on the couch with a sigh, peeling off the sequined dress that barely counted as clothing. The mix of sweat, perfume, and whiskey clung to me, and I was more than ready for the sweet release of my bed. There was no grand reflection on what I had just done—no pity party, no deep self-questioning. Just a body in need of rest and a mind that had long ago learned to shut off any emotional noise. I slid into bed, pulling the covers tight, letting the cool cotton soothe my skin. Tomorrow was another day, and I'd face it like I always did.
By 9 AM, I was up again—like the machine I had become. The shift from the chaos of Night Eclipse to the quiet monotony of school was always jarring, but it had its perks. I threw on a pair of worn jeans and a faded sweatshirt—perfectly fitting for a student. The walk to school was familiar, the city streets always pulsing with energy, but today felt different. Maybe it was the rush of freedom that came from leaving the club behind for a few hours. Or maybe it was how the sun hit the glass buildings, making everything look just a little less grim.
School wasn't a refuge from the duality of my life—it was more like a less grating version of it. A space where the hum of the city's nightlife didn't follow me like a shadow. I found myself in the art studio, surrounded by the intoxicating smell of oil paint and wet clay, a sanctuary where my soul could breathe.
My easel stood before me, a quiet companion in this world of color and form—a place where I could briefly shed the other self, the one they paid to watch, and just be me. Art was my language, and in that language, I was fluent. I didn't need anyone to tell me I was good, though they often did. Whether it was capturing the delicate curve of a model's body in a figure study or giving life to an abstract portrait, I knew the strokes of my brush held more meaning than the flashing lights of the club ever could.
I was good at this. No pretense, no false modesty. Art was the one part of my life untouched by the murky world I danced in. It was mine. Pure, untarnished, and where I could let my guard down and create as only I could.
"Hey, Ana! You joining us for coffee later?" Jen asked, leaning over my desk, her bright smile lighting up the room. Jen was one of my closest friends, though she was oblivious to my double life.
She was a rich kid, no doubt about it. Her mom had passed away when she was young, and now she was stuck with her dad, who was in his late 50s, and his new wife. Let's just say Jen's stepmom wasn't exactly someone you'd call a "natural beauty." Her bust could probably defy gravity, her eyebrows were as fake as her personality, and her shopping habits were her greatest passion. Jen's stepmom was in her mid-20s; she didn't care about her sugar daddy's age—who doesn't like money and a life wrapped in silk sheets? She had this strange obsession with getting Jen to call her "mum," like she was trying to erase the memory of Jen's real mother. It made Jen squirm every time.
Jen didn't like to talk about her home life much, and I didn't blame her. But when she did, I could hear the tension in her voice. She'd never admit it, but I could tell she felt her dad was too old for the woman he was with. Still, Jen played the role well. She had the whole "good little rich girl" act down, except she was just too cynical to fully buy into it.
The café was exactly what you'd expect from a place near campus—trendy, overpriced, and filled with students pretending to work on their laptops. As soon as I walked in, I spotted Jen and the others at a corner booth, their loud chatter and laughter punctuating the otherwise quiet atmosphere. I grabbed my usual—black coffee with a splash of cream—and slid into the booth with a little more grace than I felt.
"You've been quiet today, Ana. Everything good?" Jen asked, concern flickering in her eyes. She had a way of seeing more than I wanted her to. I shrugged and stirred my coffee lazily. "Yeah, just tired. You know how it is—school, work, same old stuff." I raised an eyebrow. "You have no idea," I muttered, but she didn't catch the sarcasm. It was easy to forget that my life was far more complicated than any of them could imagine. "Seriously, you need to stop skipping the parties," Jen said as she slouched next to me at the coffee shop. "You don't know what you're missing—free champagne, hot guys, and all the shopping you can handle."
I laughed and shook my head. "No, definitely not. I like to eat and pay rent too much for that," I teased, earning a few laughs from the group. I wasn't lying, though. Art wasn't just a hobby—it was my escape and my future. I knew that. Even though the world I danced in sometimes felt like a trap, my art was the key to something better. It was the one thing I wouldn't sell out for, not even if the tips at Night Eclipse drowned out every doubt in my head. But for now, I was here, sitting with my friends, enjoying coffee, and pretending everything was as simple as it seemed.
As the conversation shifted to who was dating whom, who was behind on assignments, and which class had the best professors, my mind wandered. I slipped away from the safe zone of the café and into the darker world I inhabited after hours. The club. The lights. The music. And, of course, the men. But more than anything, the money. I had learned long ago that nothing came for free, and for the first time in a long time, I was starting to wonder if the price I was paying was worth it.