"What kind of stripper dances to a feminist anthem?" Missy wondered aloud over the sinewy bassline.

Ray smirked into his drink. "A ballsy one."

Like she had on Broadway years ago, Odile owned the stage she performed on. One of the latest pop hits about female sexual liberation made for a beguiling background to her mind-bending pole act. She danced barefoot, in a fluffy sweater worn over a sequin-studded leotard. Slick with sweat, strands of her short hair stuck to her face or whipped round her skull in sync with her movements.

The audience looked on, enthralled, although not necessarily buzzing. Unsurprisingly. The kind of men who frequented such establishments came for the gratification that their money could buy, not that they had to earn.

Downing his drink, Ray dared hope that it might turn out easier than expected to talk Odile into Vince's scheme. Her stage charisma could only go so far in keeping her hungry patrons hooked to the edges of their seats.

And yet, heady gunpowder lingered in the lights, waiting to be ignited. The air thickened with anticipation by the second and when a ring trapeze descended behind her, Odile pulled the trigger.

She hopped onto the ring and the trapeze began to rise. Once it was high enough, she let her body drop, clinging onto the ring by her knees. Her loose sweater slid off her arms. Wolf whistles erupted in the club and Ray clicked his tongue.

"Dammit."

The shiny leotard had a cut-out back that extended onto her sides. It exposed her shoulder blades and squeezed her breasts into an enticing cleavage.

"Well," Missy piped up beside Ray, "she's definitely ballsy."

Odile contorted within and without the ring, hanging by a thread one second, flipping in the air the next. The trapeze travelled into the audience, for its mistress to collect her tips.

"Damn, she's good," Ray muttered.

The trapeze never tarried long above any one individual table – it made her descent unto the mortals that much more titillating. She stooped to touch them only if she deigned the tribute worthy and as a result returned to her stage with her leotard stuffed full of bills.

Ray and Missy headed for the exit, lying in wait for Odile by the back door of the cabaret club. The director lit a cigarette, visualizing potential scenarios of how his interaction with Odile could go. Would she flip him off or stop to listen?

Although he'd never admit it out loud, Ray couldn't deny the stroke of genius that had carried Vincent Friday to unimaginable heights. So maybe his latest idea could catapult them both into the stratosphere, after all. Or crush them into the concrete like the burnt stubs under Ray's heel.

The director had time for three smokes before Odile showed up.

"Hey, stranger," he greeted as soon as she stepped outside, making sure to stand in the light so she could see his face.

Odile adjusted the hood on her head, squinting. "Raymond Scarborough?"

Her years in New York hadn't dulled that posh British accent of hers. Ray couldn't contain a smile.

"In the flesh," he said. "Oh, and remember Missy? Vince Friday's assistant?"

Missy stuck out her hand, excited, except Odile crossed her arms over her chest.

"What do you want?" the dancer inquired harshly. "And please do cut to the chase."

"Very well." Ray held up his hands in an attempt to placate her. "I've got a part tailored just for you, which comes with a fat check and maybe a shot at Broadway."

"I'm done with Broadway," Odile snapped back. "And Broadway is done with me."

Ray's confidence didn't falter, despite the unease radiating off of Missy.

"That check, though – how fat are we talking?"

*

Odile did not utter a single word the whole way. It made for an awkward silence in the car and an overlong elevator ride to Vince's penthouse. She followed Ray and Missy into a spacious living-room with floor-length windows. The New York City skyline glittered against the night outside.

That view brought back memories of evenings spent staring out at Central Park after dinner. She walked straight to the windows and didn't see the other person in the room until the glass caught his reflection when he stood up from the sofa. Odile whipped round.

"What the hell is he doing here?" she demanded, eyeing Ray and Missy in turn.

Jun's incipient smile wilted around the edges.

Odile snorted at the director. "This is the catch for that fat check you mentioned? Dancing with Jun fucking Yang? Forget it."

Jun wore a pleading look. "Odile, listen, if you'll just give me a chance – "

Her name on his lips gave her goosebumps she didn't want. Odile turned on her heel and stomped towards the exit.

"Why don't you give us the room?" Vince's voice resounded behind her.

Odile stopped. Steps shuffled. She glanced over her shoulder at three figures receding and one approaching. Finally, Odile faced the singer.

"Long time," he said on a not-so-subtle onceover. "Looking good."

Odile glowered up at him. Although tired, his eyes hadn't lost their smug spark.

"Just cut the crap and tell me what you want. I haven't got all night."

Vince had the audacity to chuckle. "I have a job for you, didn't Ray tell you?"

"Yeah, well, he failed to mention Jun Yang would be involved."

"What would be the point of a reunion show if no one was reuniting?"

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"I've put out a new album, Physical. Did you have a chance to listen to it?"

Odile rolled her eyes. "Phenomenal, Physical... Could you be any less original?"

If that irked him, he didn't let it show.

"That was half the point," he said. "Revisiting those same themes, seven years later. Then versus now, see how far I've come."

"I see... Documenting your journey from lamb to wolf?"

A genuine glimmer of joy seemed to replace the smugness for a moment. "See? I knew you'd get it."

Odile shook her head and sighed. "Yeah, whatever." Pity for a fellow struggling artist eased the tension out of her stiff shoulders. "You do you, mate, I just don't want any part of it. That chapter of my life has been sealed shut."

"Yeah, the thing is..." The singer rubbed at his wrinkled forehead. "I need you to do it, O. That's why I'm willing to pay you a shitload, because, let's be real – your fees aren't really at that level anymore."

"Thanks, but no, thanks. You can keep your money." She adjusted the bag on her shoulder and backed away. "Nice seeing you, I guess. Good luck, Vince."

"There's also this," he called after her once she made it to the front door.

Odile dreaded to turn around. When she did, Vince was holding up his smartphone to show her a video. Her eyes bulged at the sex tape playing on the small screen. It featured him and another woman in a bedroom she did not recognise, even though the woman had her face.

"That's..."

She couldn't look away from the crude scenes. Muffled moans and grunts accompanied the display. Odile frowned in a struggle to recall when she'd ever done that with Vince. Where? Then she noticed the woman didn't laugh right. Didn't move right. Didn't look right.

"That's not me," Odile hissed through gritted teeth.

"Oh?" Vince stole a glimpse at the screen. "I couldn't tell," he said innocently. "Do you think anyone else could? Well, anyone other than Jun or your parents."

"Why are you doing this?"

"You said it yourself. I'm a wolf now, baby girl. I've clawed my way to the top and I'd like to stay here, even if it means baring my fangs. You are how I stay here. One night in Vegas and this little indie production doesn't go live. Do we have a deal?"

Odile fumed, her nostrils flared.

"Tell you what." Vince locked his phone and slid it into his pocket. "I'll give you... three days? To make up your mind. If I don't hear back from you in three days, I'll assume it's a no and anonymously release the kraken into the world wide web."

Her jaw clenched. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Come on, O. A hundred thousand dollars for one night in Vegas. Fifty grand now, fifty after the fact. Just say yes! It's a fair bargain."

It was the furthest thing from fair, but Odile bolted to seethe on her own in the elevator, saving her tears for the street.