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She drained the last of her drink, the cold liquid sliding down her throat like a promise she didn’t believe in. The nightclub had become both her sanctuary and her prison, a place where the music was loud enough to drown out her thoughts but never quite enough to erase the memory of why she was there in the first place.

She hadn't always been like this—numb, disconnected, going through the motions. But London had a way of wearing people down, of turning dreams into burdens that felt too heavy to carry. Working at the nightclub wasn't something she'd planned. It was supposed to be temporary, just a way to get by until something better came along. But something better had never shown up. Instead, she found herself stuck in this endless cycle of late nights, long hours, and endless encounters with people who saw her as nothing more than a pretty face and sexy body.

It was the worst part of the job—the way people treated her. The hands that lingered too long, the comments that made her skin crawl. No matter how many times she reminded herself that this was just a stepping stone, it never got easier. Every night, she put on a smile, played the part, and tried to ignore the way her dignity crumbled a little more with each shift.

But she needed the money. She couldn't afford to give up, not when she'd come this far. The dream that had brought her to this city was still there, burning brightly in the back of her mind, even if it felt out of reach most days. She couldn't let it die, not after everything she'd sacrificed.

So she endured. She danced when she could, practiced in her tiny flat until her muscles ached, reminded herself that this wasn't the end. One day, she told herself, she’d be on a stage where people came to watch her move, not her body.

But tonight, the dream felt far away, buried under the weight of reality. So she tipped her head back, took another drink, and let the vodka do its work.

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