My SoulMate My SweetHeart Pt3

Nathan drives closer and the front of The Velvet Room appears, the neon sign casting a faint pink glow across the sidewalk. I can feel the tension in my chest tightening the closer we get, my fingers twisting together in my lap.

He glances at the building, then at me, as he stops the car. His gray eyes are sharp and curious. “You’re sure this is where you work?”

I nod too quickly, forcing a tight smile. “Yep. This is it. I, uh … I serve drinks here. Nothing glamorous.”

His lips twitch, like he doesn’t quite believe me, but he doesn’t push it. “Right,” he says slowly, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

The silence stretches between us for a moment before I fumble for the door handle. “Thanks for the ride,” I say quickly, needing to get out before he asks more questions.

“Emma,” he says, stopping me just as I’m about to step out.

I turn back to him, my heart skipping a beat. “Yeah?”

He hesitates, his gaze flicking between me and the building. “Be careful. Okay?”

Something in his tone makes my stomach flip, but I nod, forcing another smile. “I will. Thanks again.”

I step out of the car, shutting the door behind me before I can change my mind. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk toward the entrance, my heels clicking against the pavement.

When I reach the door, I glance back over my shoulder, but his car is already pulling away, disappearing into the traffic.

I let out a shaky breath and push the door open to the club, stepping into the dimly lit hallway.

The Velvet Room is alive with its usual hum of music, laughter, and the low murmur of conversation. The air is thick with perfume, whiskey, and the sharp tang of wealth, and the lights cast everything in shades of red and gold.

I slip into the dressing room, where the other girls are already getting ready. Some are adjusting their outfits, others are perfecting their makeup. A few glance up as I enter, but most are too busy to pay me much attention.

Sylvia, the manager, is waiting for me near the back. She’s wearing her usual tight black dress and red lipstick, her sharp eyes narrowing the moment she sees me.

“Cutting it close again, Emma,” she says, crossing her arms.

I wince. “Sorry, Sylvia. Traffic was—”

“I don’t want to hear excuses,” she snaps, cutting me off. “You know the rules. If you’re caught standing around or skipping your stage sets, you’re done here. Understand?”

“Yes,” I say quickly, my cheeks burning.

“Good. Now get out there and make yourself useful.”

I nod, hurrying to my locker to change. My outfit for the night is a red lace bodysuit with matching heels and a pair of sheer black thigh-highs. I pull my hair out of its bun, letting it fall in loose waves around my shoulders, and touch up my lipstick in the mirror.

There. Now I’m not Emma anymore.

Now I’m Lila.

The night passes in a blur of music, lights, and movement. I dance onstage for a while, letting the rhythm guide me as I sway and arch under the heat of the spotlights. The men watching are the usual mix of regulars and new faces, their eyes glued to me and the other girls as we move.

I’m just finishing my set when Sylvia appears at the edge of the stage, motioning for me to come over.

“A VIP is waiting for you,” she says, her voice low but firm.

I stiffen slightly, but I nod. “Okay.”

“Don’t keep him waiting, booth four” she adds, her eyes narrowing. “And remember, if I catch you standing around or doing anything other than dancing, you’re out.”

I nod again, swallowing the lump in my throat, and make my way toward the VIP section.

The private booths are dimly lit and lined with plush red velvet, each one separated by thick curtains for privacy. I stop outside the booth Sylvia directed me to, taking a deep breath before pulling the curtain aside.

And then I freeze.

Sitting on the leather couch, his legs crossed and a glass of whiskey in his hand, is Nathan Carter.

His stormy gray eyes meet mine, and for a moment, neither of us says anything. The air feels thick, the weight of his gaze pinning me in place.

“Emma,” he says finally, his voice low and smooth, though there’s a faint edge of surprise in it.

I stand there, my heart racing so hard I swear he can hear it. “Nathan,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

He leans back slightly, his lips curving into a smirk. “So this is what you meant by ‘serving drinks.’”

I feel the heat rush to my face, but I force myself to keep my composure. “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“Funny,” he says, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “I could say the same thing.”

I glance toward the entrance of the booth, knowing Sylvia is probably lurking somewhere nearby. If she catches me standing here, not dancing, I’m done.

“I … I have to—” I start, motioning vaguely toward him.

“Dance?” he finishes, his smirk deepening.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice barely steady. “If I get caught standing around I get fired.”

For a moment, he just looks at me, his gaze sharp and almost unreadable. Then he leans back further, spreading his legs slightly and gesturing toward me with his glass. “Go ahead, then.”

My stomach twists, but I don’t have a choice. I take a step forward, letting the curtain fall shut behind me, and slowly start to sway to the muffled beat of the music outside.

Nathan watches me, his gaze never leaving mine. He’s too calm, too composed, and it’s throwing me off. Most men can’t keep eye contact during a dance like this, but he doesn’t even blink.

I move closer, my hands trailing down my sides as I sink onto his lap, my knees pressing into the leather on either side of him. His body is warm beneath mine, and I can feel the tension coiled in his muscles, even though he’s trying to act relaxed.

“You’re good at this,” he says, his voice low and almost teasing.

“Thanks,” I mutter, trying not to let the heat in my cheeks show.

“Does your boss know you lied to me earlier?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

I pause, my movements faltering. “What?”

“About serving drinks,” he says, his smirk widening. “Does your manager know you’re telling people that’s what you do here?”

I narrow my eyes at him, leaning in slightly until our faces are only inches apart. “Sylvia doesn’t care what I say as long as I’m dancing. Which, by the way, I need to keep doing if I want to keep my job.”

His smirk fades slightly, replaced by something quieter, softer. “You really need this job, huh?”

“You have no idea,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, the air between us shifts, and I see something in his expression I don’t expect, understanding.

“Then don’t stop,” he says, his voice soft but firm.

I lean back slightly, my hands resting lightly on his shoulders as I start to move again. His hands stay firmly on the couch, but his gaze remains locked on mine, intense and unrelenting.

And as the music thrums through the booth, I can’t help but wonder what exactly I’ve gotten myself into.