Chapter 1:
Angelique
Oh no , Why has life been so unkind to me?, Fuck this life!, fuck my irresponsible Dad, fuck Men, fuck marriage!
I never imagined my life would spiral into this, where darkness feels like home and the night is my only friend. But here I am, draped in silk and shame, a woman dancing in shadows for men who see me as a fantasy, not a person. My name is Angelique, and I am a club stripper and sex worker. But before you judge me, know this: no one chooses this path for pleasure. It's survival. Pure and raw.
The nights blend together, with the music thumping like my heart when I first stepped onto that stage. I was eighteen, scared, broke, and desperate. My mother had died two weeks before, and my father had disappeared years ago because of his addictions. With no family and no plan, I had to find a way to survive. So, I danced. Then, I sold parts of myself, my time, my body, my identity, to men with hungry eyes and too much money.
I built a reputation. The rich ones called for me. Powerful men, married men, dangerous men. I became the secret they all shared but never spoke of in daylight. I learned their names, their vices, their favorite drinks, and I made myself indispensable. But I kept my distance, guarded my soul even when they touched everything else. Until that night.
He was new, a billionaire with a cold smile and a scent of whiskey and power. His voice was deep, confident, and practiced. He booked me for a private session in a hotel penthouse, and I agreed because the money could pay rent for a month. I didn't know he would bring a friend. I didn't know I wouldn't have a say. What was supposed to be a transaction turned into a violation. I screamed, fought, bled, but I wasn't heard. Not really.
I was fucked by both men from the rare and front, a crazy double penetration, my vigina and anus, stretched by two rock hard dicks, After sucking their dicks to make them hard and throbbing, I had multiple orgasms from the double penetrations, Prior to now, I never liked anal sex, Though some of my colleagues preferred having their asshole fucked anytime and any day.
They left before dawn, leaving money on the nightstand like it could erase what they did.
I disappeared after that.
I stopped answering my manager's calls. I threw my phone into the river. I moved into a cheap apartment under a fake name and stared at the ceiling for days. Weeks. Until the sickness came. At first, I thought it was stress or the flu. But when my breasts ached and my stomach turned at the smell of food, I knew. I was pregnant.
The thought of bringing a child into this world, into my world, was terrifying. What kind of life could I possibly give him or her? I could barely hold myself together, and now I was supposed to be responsible for someone else's life?
"I can't do this," I whispered into the silence of my room. "I'm not ready. I never asked for this."
I looked at the ceiling, as if answers would fall from it.
"But then… why can't I make the call?" I had the clinic's number saved on my personal cell phone. I'd even pressed the dial button once, twice, but my thumb hovered, hesitated, and trembled.
"Why do I keep stopping?"
My hand found its way to my belly, unthinking, instinctive. It was becoming a habit.
"Am I already getting attached?"
A lump formed in my throat.
"Maybe it's guilt. Or maybe… maybe it's something else. Maybe I want this. Or maybe I just want to believe I can do this. That I can be more than my past."
I closed my eyes.
"God, what if I fail my child?"
And then, softer, barely audible even to myself..
"But what if I don't?"
I carried the baby in silence, hiding from the world that once devoured me. I barely left the apartment except for prenatal visits with fake names and cash payments. I didn't talk to anyone. Not even the nurses who gave me pitying looks. I was alone. Utterly alone.
When the contractions started, I didn't go to a hospital. I sneaked out of the city, past the neon lights and the screaming horns, until I found a dirt road that led to nowhere. There, under the fading stars, I brought my son into the world. The pain was excruciating, but I did it. Alone. No epidural. No machines. Just me, my screams, and the sound of a new life crying into the wind.
He was beautiful. Tiny, warm, and so real. I held him for hours, memorizing his face, his scent, the way his fists curled like he was already preparing to fight the world. My heart broke in a thousand ways because I knew I couldn't keep him. I couldn't give him what he deserved.
Near dawn, I wrapped him in the cleanest blanket I had and placed him in a basket. I found a farmhouse at the edge of a field, with a mailbox that read "Anderson." The lights were off. It looked safe. Loving. Normal. Everything I wasn't. I left him on the porch with a note that simply said, Please take care of him. His name is Alex.
Then I walked away. I didn't look back.
Eventually, I returned to the city, back to the clubs, the dim lights, the stage. I wore my mask again, the seductive smile, the teasing touch. But inside, something was different. I had known love, even for a moment. I had held it in my arms. And though I gave him up, I prayed that one day, somehow, he'd understand.
His name was Alex.
And if he ever finds me, I'll tell him everything, with a broken heart.
Even the parts that still make me cry.