♪♫︵‿୨ Monday June 13, 2016 ୧‿︵♫♪

I really hated Monday mornings. Nothing ever good happened on a Monday. They marked the end of the weekend and the return to the grind of work. My father had died on a Monday, and it was the following Monday that I was uprooted from my homeland and thrust into a new life on the other side of the world.

Don't get me wrong; I wasn't annoyed at the idea of working. I had been busting my ass for the past 11 years since moving to America at 13. My first job was as a cashier at a supermarket in Hyde Park, where I started saving for my college fund. Back in Sydney, Australia, I never had to worry about that—we could rely on the government's tuition loan service. But after being uprooted to Boston, where my mother had grown up, I found myself working just a month after my 14th birthday.

Over the years, I'd held a variety of jobs, each one shaping me in different ways. Some I enjoyed, most I didn't—like my current one. I was the Loans Manager's secretary at Liberty Heights Financial, a position I truly loathed. I had been searching for a new opportunity, but so far, my efforts had been in vain.

It was a Monday morning—9:08 a.m., to be precise—when I found myself sitting in an uncomfortable chair outside the HR department. A wave of apprehension washed over me. Was something finally going to happen to my boss, Nick Stevenson? Was someone going to take my sexual harassment seriously?

From the moment I had started working here two years ago, I'd pegged Nick as a chauvinistic pig. He'd lived up to that judgement, believing he was God's gift to women. Sure, every woman wanted a slimy, creepy man who smelled like stale tobacco coming onto them all hours of the day. I'd lost count of all the times he had groped me, passing it off as an accidental brush of the hand. But what was worse were the vile, murmured words of all the things that he wanted to do to my body. Last Friday, I'd had enough; during my lunch break, I had submitted an official complaint against my boss.

"Chloe, Mrs. Daniels will see you now," the secretary announced, her soft voice carrying warmth. She offered a sympathetic smile, sensing my nerves as I waited outside the office. With a gentle nod, she gestured for me to enter, a small moment of reassurance before the daunting meeting ahead.

I walked into the sleek HR office, the sunlight streaming through the large glass windows, illuminating the modern decor. Taking a seat in the plush armchair positioned in front of the spacious glass desk, I noticed the nameplate, polished to a shine.

'Sarah Daniels, HR Director'

The woman behind the desk looked visibly stressed. Her brow furrowed as she flipped through a stack of reports. Her pink-painted lips pressed tightly together, forming a thin line. It looked like she had been here for a full day instead of the 10 minutes since the workday started.

"Miss Harlowe, thank you for coming in," Mrs. Daniels said, her sympathetic gaze echoing the secretary's. I sat stiffly, my palms resting on my knees, silently awaiting the reason for my summons. After a long, heavy sigh, she shifted to the armchair beside mine, her posture slumping as if the weight of her job was pressing down on her.

"There's no easy way to say this. Chloe, you are being let go, effective immediately."

My heart plummeted, a cold knot of anxiety in my stomach. Though I had loathed working here, the reality of leaving struck hard. I needed this job, needed the money. Anxiety surged through me. Without an income, the mountain of debt I faced loomed even larger, pressing down on my chest like an anchor.

"Is—is it because of my complaint against Mr. Stevenson and his unwanted advances?" I stammered, my voice quivering with disbelief and rising anger. I caught Mrs. Daniels's gaze drop, her silence heavy in the air, confirming my worst fears. I shook my head, a rueful laugh escaping my lips, tinged with bitterness. "I'm the innocent victim in all of this," I scoffed, "yet I'm the one being punished." My hands clenched into fists on my lap, the frustration boiling within me, while my heart raced, echoing the unfairness of it all.

"I know it isn't fair," she murmured, her hand reaching out to clasp mine in a gesture of support. The warmth of her touch was a small comfort against the whirlwind of emotions I felt. "I wish I could do more for you, but my hands are tied by the higher-ups."

"I really need this job," I admitted, my voice trembling as tears threatened to spill. "Is there another position or floor I could transfer to? If I could just get away from Mr. Stevenson, I would be happy to keep working here."

A deep sense of despair washed over me as Sarah shook her head. "I'm sorry, but no." Her dismissal cut deeper than I expected, a sob racking through me as the weight of her words settled in. "You have been deemed an 'inappropriate employee.' Your contract has been terminated, effective immediately." The finality of it felt like a heavy stone dropping into my gut, leaving me breathless.

My heart shattered at her words. I have always been proud of my reputation as an exemplary employee, someone who consistently went above and beyond.

"Chloe, you didn't hear this from me..." Sarah hesitated, glancing around as if ensuring no one else could overhear. "You're not the only one who has filed complaints against Mr. Stevenson. But with his uncle owning Liberty Heights Financial, nothing will ever be done about his behaviour towards women." She paused, her expression softening. "I was under strict orders not to do this, but I've written you a reference."

She stood up and moved back to her desk, the air heavy with unspoken frustrations. As she pulled out a sheet of paper, I could see the word 'Reference' clearly printed at the top. My heart raced with a flicker of gratitude. With deliberate care, she slipped the paper into the middle of a stack, then slid the entire bundle toward me. It felt like a lifeline in a stormy sea, but the weight of the situation still loomed large.

"Should you need to list anyone as a referee for future jobs, please use my name," she said, her sincerity evident in her steady gaze. "I won't disclose that you were fired or the reasons behind it. I truly wish there was more I could do for you."

The remainder of the exit interview faded into a blur, her words echoing in my mind as I struggled to process the reality of it all. With each step feeling heavy as if concrete weights were strapped to my feet, I made my way out of the spacious corner office and into the elevator. The familiar surroundings felt surreal like I was having a nightmare. My heart raced like a drum, pounding in my chest as if trying to escape. I had never been fired before, and to have it happen because I stood up for myself made me feel sick to my stomach, a mixture of disbelief and anger swirling within me.

As I sat on the worn couch of my rent-controlled Harlem studio apartment, the faint hum of the city outside filtered through the open window. The happy chatter of people down below was a stark contrast to the chaos in my mind. As much as I wanted to take a moment to lick my wounds, I knew I couldn't afford that luxury. The weight of my grandfather's medical bills pressed down on me, compounded by the debt left behind by my late father.

I began scouring the internet for a new job, my laptop on my knees. Each listing I opened felt like a blow. Some were too far away. Others offered a pay that barely met my needs. But most were jobs I had already applied for, only to be met with disappointing rejection emails. Each click of the mousepad felt heavier, the stakes higher, as I desperately searched for a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty.

♪♫︵‿୨ Monday June 27, 2016 ୧‿︵♫♪

For the past two weeks, I had thrown myself into job hunting, applying for every opportunity I came across online. With summer in full swing and the 4th of July holiday looming next week, many positions were already filled. The ones that weren't, the employers were keeping the listing open until after the holiday. I needed a job now, not one that would start in another month.

When I wasn't glued to my laptop, I pounded the pavement, handing out my resume to every business displaying a 'Help Wanted' sign. Each day that passed only heightened my stress and panic, the weight of my situation pressing heavily on my chest.

Amid the endless listings, there was one ad I kept encountering: a call for dancers. Each time I saw it, I dismissed it without a second thought. After all, dance listings typically led to one thing—strip clubs. This advertisement, however, was far classier and more respectful than the others I had come across. When I googled the name of the establishment, my heart sank as I confirmed my suspicions. The 'dancers' the ad was recruiting for were exactly what I had feared—performers who earned their income by shedding their clothes.

But desperate times called for desperate measures.

As much as I hesitated, I knew I couldn't afford to ignore any opportunity that could help me regain my footing. With trembling hands, I dialled the number included in the ad, my heart racing with every ring. Each second stretched out, deepening the knot in my throat, making it hard to breathe. Finally, on the fifth ring, a smooth, fast-talking voice broke the silence on the other end.

I spoke to the kind-sounding owner of the club, who asked a few straightforward questions that somehow made me feel at ease. To my surprise, he invited me in for an interview.

When he inquired if I was available in a few hours, a wave of anxiety washed over me. I took a deep breath and bit the bullet, knowing that if I put it off, I would lose my nerve. I set up the interview, feeling a mix of dread and determination. This could be my chance, no matter how unconventional it seemed.

As I stood outside the establishment in Hell's Kitchen three hours later, doubt gnawed at me. Was I doing the right thing? A flutter of anxiety twisted in my stomach as I imagined what would happen when I walked through those doors. Part of me feared I'd be laughed out immediately. After all, I'd never heard of a curvy, voluptuous, plus-size stripper. My body was more pear-shaped than the alluring hourglass figure I associated with the profession. Not to mention that whenever I danced, there was a lot more jiggle than I'd seen in other women.

As much as I longed to turn around and head home to search for a different job, the harsh reality loomed over me: I had found nothing else. With a deep breath, I gathered my resolve, pushed open the door, and stepped inside. The dim lighting enveloped me, pulling me into an unfamiliar world that felt both exciting and terrifying.

"Welcome to Copacabana," the same smooth voice I'd spoken to on the phone greeted me. "Are you Chloe Harlowe?"

I extended my hand to the strikingly handsome man, who looked to be of a similar age to me. "Yes, I'm Chloe, which must make you... Seokjin?"

He nodded, his plump lips turning up into a warm smile, and led me to a plush booth with rich red velvet seats. As Seokjin moved behind the bar, I seized the chance to take in my surroundings at the slightly seedy strip club. Poles rose at various points on the stage, which dominated a third of the room, beckoning performers with their metallic sheen. Semi-circular booths lined the perimeter, each boasting a pole rising from the centre of the table.

The centre of the room was filled with a maze of tables, each surrounded by three chairs, all angled perfectly to ensure an unobstructed view of the stage. Bright lights illuminated the space, revealing scuffed wooden floors that bore the marks of countless nights. I shivered at the thought of how grimy they would become by the end of the night, sticky with spilt drinks and scattered remnants of rowdy patrons.

"You said on the phone that you dance?" Seokjin asked, pulling me from my observations. I hadn't even noticed he had returned, placing a glass of iced water in front of me.

Taking a sip to steady my nerves, I nodded. "Yes. My father saw my passion for dance when I was just a toddler, so he enrolled me in classes when I was three. I started with jazz, which I absolutely hated."

I chuckled at the memory of fighting with my mother, desperately trying to persuade her to let me switch to something else. She had always been resentful that I was even enrolled in the classes that my father paid for. In her eyes, it was money taken away from her precious child support payments.

"I'm trained in hip-hop," I continued, refocusing on the interview. "While I can dance in various hip-hop styles, I particularly enjoy boogaloo, lyrical, and liquid dance. I've also studied belly dancing, merengue, and bachata." Each style felt like a piece of my story, adding layers to my identity as a dancer. Seokjin listened intently, a flicker of interest in his eyes as I shared my journey.

"That's impressive!" Seokjin exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "Hop up onto the stage and give me a demonstration, please."

As the music flowed through the speakers, I took a moment to absorb the vibe, letting the rhythm wash over me. The song had a sultry edge, so I decided to blend a few of my more seductive styles. I moved fluidly, letting my body express the confidence I felt, and glanced over at Seokjin. His gaze raked over me, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and in that moment, I felt sexy, desired. Powerful. Under the bright house lights of the club, any lingering shame evaporated.

When I finished and returned to the booth, exhilaration still coursing through me, we spent a few minutes discussing my dance history and the reasons behind my chosen styles. "I have one last question to ask you, Chloe," Seokjin said, leaning forward with his hands clasped on the table, his expression shifting to one of genuine curiosity. "Why do you want to dance here at Copacabana?"

I looked him in the eyes and spoke my truth. As I shared my life story, I watched his eyes widen and his mouth drop in disbelief. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over me as I finished speaking. I felt proud of the hard work I had put in to tackle the crippling debt I had inherited, at the same time, a deep sense of shame settled in. It stung to realise that I was resorting to stripping just to get ahead.

"Not the typical 'daddy problems' I hear from most of the other girls who interview," he chuckled, his laughter genuine and warm.

His high-pitched, squeaky laugh put me at ease, and I couldn't help but join in. "Nope, mainly mommy problems in my case," I joked, a playful smile breaking through my anxiety.

"Either way, Doll, you'll fit in well here. Welcome to the Copacabana family, Chloe." Relief flooded through me at the confirmation that I had a job again. "Before you can be one of our girls, though, I want you to go through a crash course on some other dances."

I glanced nervously at the poles around the stage, my heart sinking. "Umm, I'm petrified of heights, Seokjin. Do I have to do pole dancing to work here?" I asked, my voice tinged with trepidation. The thought of climbing up those poles sent a shiver down my spine, and I could feel my palms start to sweat.

He smiled and shook his head, his expression reassuring. "All the other girls do, but the way you moved out there... you're gonna drive our clientele crazy. I was thinking more along the lines of twerking and burlesque for the other dances."

I felt a flicker of hope but couldn't shake the worry that he might be saying this just to ease my nerves. "I have big plans in mind for you," he continued, leaning in slightly, his enthusiasm evident. The promise in his voice stirred something within me, igniting a sense of curiosity and excitement about what could lie ahead.