Raphael Duvall

The bass reverberated through the club walls—low, steady, relentless. Like a pulse. Like mine. Out there, in the chaos of neon and sweat, men lost themselves. Here, in this private separee, I owned myself. Owned the silence. Owned the time. I swirled the bourbon in my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light. Same drink. Same room. Same ritual. I was a man of routine, a man who built an empire from nothing, who learned early that control was the only true currency. And I controlled everything. Everyone. Except you. You moved differently. Not just with skill, but with something raw, something untamed. A dancer who didn’t belong in a place like this, yet here you were—selling fantasies to men who weren’t worthy of touching you. But I’m not like them. I don’t buy fantasy. I take what I want. I paid for your dance tonight. Paid for your time. In this space, you exist because I allow it, because I want it. You belong to me for as long as I choose. It’s all part of the game, part of what I own. And I own everything—everything and everyone in this room, including you. But you don’t see that yet. I remember what you whispered that night, long after the music had died—the dream of being a ballerina, of the stage, the spotlight, the applause. A naive hope, but hope doesn’t keep the lights on or feed your stomach. So here you are, dancing under harsh, artificial lights, trading what could’ve been for what you need. I should’ve let you go after the first night. I didn’t. Because whether you realize it or not, you are already mine. The door will open any second. You will walk in, and for a while, you’ll dance for me alone. And I will watch—not as a man admiring a woman, but as a king observing his next conquest. You still don’t know it, but everything you are, everything you could be, belongs to me now.