February - New York - Angel as Mark

Dinner was already plated when Lena Park arrived. Mark (formerly Angel) wore a black-on-black best, no tie, sleeves rolled, the perfect blend of intimidating and disarming. She wore a silver slip dress, daring by her standards, paired with a blazer that she refused to remove even after two glasses of wine. Mark clocked the nervous micro-glances at his forearms, the way she tucked a stray hair behind her ear when she meant business, the tic of her heel under the table.

“Better than Nobu,” Lena said, after sampling some Otoro. “I’m impressed.”

Mark smiled, slow and predatory. “You don’t sound that impressed.”

“I’m not easily impressed,” she parried, reaching for her glass. “But you’re persistent.”
Mark studied her.

From their earlier interactions and the minutes and memos he’d read, Lena was all edges and almost masculine in her pursuit of leverage. She outmaneuvered him in many board meetings and had only relented to a relationship with Mark last year when she was sure he’d play by her rules. Mark had got that much from her old text messages which hadn’t been deleted from Mark’s phone. The thing probably lasted no more than a month and seemed perfunctory, almost businesslike in its passion.

Tonight, Lena was different. Warier, but also less rehearsed. Maybe she’d finally decided he was a lost cause and could relax around him. Maye she just preferred the new Mark.

They ate in relative silence, the only sound the clink of ceramic and the distant hum of the city, forty stories below. He poured her more sake and watched her drain it, eyes never leaving his face. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t need to.

When the plates were cleared, Mark leaned back, arms spread, a deliberate flex. “I had a weird thought today.”

“Only one?” Lena said, deadpan.

Mark laughed. “I wondered how you’d look with your hair down.”

She blinked, surprised. “You’ve never asked that before.”

“Would you?”

She considered it, then undid the pin. Her hair fell to her shoulders in a glossy curtain, softening the severity of her features. It was the smallest act of vulnerability he’d ever seen from her.
She set the pin down like it was evidence and asked, “What else did you wonder?”

Mark’s smile sharpened. “If you’d let me take you to bed, or if you’d make me work for it.”

Lena’s nostrils flared, ever so slightly. “I have an early meeting.”

“My bed is large enough for two,” Mark said, standing.

She didn’t move, but her eyes followed him as he rounded the table and offered his hand. She took it, the grip ironclad. He pulled her up, close enough to smell the ghost of her perfume, then walked her to the bedroom, neither rushing nor hesitating.

In the low light, Lena’s mask began to slip. She pulled the blazer tighter as if to shield herself, then let it drop when she realized how silly it looked. Mark let her undress herself, watching every button, every inch of exposed skin. Lena could feel his eyes on her. He didn’t touch her yet; just watched, absorbing the way her muscles flexed under her camisole, the subtle tremor in her fingers.

“Are you going to stare all night?” she said, trying for bravado.

“Maybe.”

Mark stepped in, hands at her waist. She tensed, then exhaled, letting him draw her in. He kissed her—light at first, then hungrier, tasting the sake on her lips. She kissed back, harder than he expected, then bit his lower lip, a warning shot from the old Lena. He liked it.

He stripped her top with practiced ease, then paused at her bra. “Can I?”

She nodded, and he slid the straps off, slow, watching her shiver. He was careful not to rush. If there was one thing he’d learned from (Angel’s) years in the trenches, it was that patience was currency. He moved his mouth to her neck, then down to her collarbone, hands kneading her back and shoulders. She was rigid at first, a coil of ambition and stress, but every pass of his tongue loosened something. By the time he reached her breasts, she was gasping, her head tipped back, eyes closed.

“You’re not the same,” she murmured, barely audible.

He stopped, just for a second. “What do you mean?”

“Last time, it was always about you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “This is…different.”

Mark smiled against her skin. “This time, it’s all about you.”

She didn’t answer. He worked his way down, hands bracketing her hips, tongue tracing the line of her abs. He was proud of her, of the athleticism and discipline it took to build this body. The old Mark would’ve rushed to the finish line, but the new Mark, the one who’d lived inside Angel’s skin, knew how to savor. He mapped every inch, tongue and fingers working in tandem, reading her reactions with a tactician’s precision.

He undressed her fully, then stepped back to admire her. She tried to cover herself, but he caught her wrists and pinned them above her head, gently but with intent.

“Don’t hide,” he said.

She shuddered, but held his gaze. “Don’t give me a reason to.”

He smiled, then kissed her again, this time letting his hands roam wherever they pleased. He found the places she liked best—the small of her back, the spot just above her hip bone, the inside of her thigh. He lingered there, kissing, biting lightly, then used his fingers to tease her open. She was already slick, and he could smell her, could feel the way her body responded to every calculated touch.

He entered her slow, letting her adjust to his size, his rhythm. She clung to him, nails digging into his back, but he didn’t mind. He liked the pain. He set a pace that was steady, relentless, building her up but never letting her tip over the edge. When she starting begging, he nearly lost control, but held back, wanting to see how far he could take her.

He whispered in her ear, dirty and sweet, and watched her unravel.

When she finally came, it was violent; a full-body quake that left her gasping and clinging to him like a lifeline. He let her ride it out, then flipped her over and did it again, this time slower, deeper. She cursed him, then herself, then him again.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, both slick with sweat and shivering slightly from the aftershocks.

Lena was the first to speak. “What happened to you?”

Mark turned, propping himself up on one elbow. “You want the truth?”

“Always.”

He thought about it, then shrugged. “I woke up one day and decided I was done pretending to be a machine.”

She studied him, searching for the punchline. “You mean it.”

He nodded. “I do.”

She laughed, soft and rueful. “I never thought you’d grow up.”

“Neither did I.”

A long silence, comfortable this time.

Finally, Lena rolled over, draping an arm across his chest. “I still have that meeting in the morning.”

“Go,” he said. “Be a shark.”

She smiled, then closed her eyes, already drifting.

He watched her sleep, felt a strange new warmth in his chest, and realized that maybe he was more than the sum of his new body’s worst instincts. The city glowed outside the window, indifferent to the denizens which inhabited it. But inside, Mark Steele felt alive for the first time in years.

He woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Lena cursing at her phone. She’d already dressed; hair up, blazer on, makeup flawless. But her eyes were softer now, the perpetual squint of suspicion replaced by something like contentment.

She didn’t say goodbye. She just kissed him on the mouth, then left, leaving her hairpin on the nightstand as a reminder.

Mark stared at it for a long time, then got up, showered, and dressed for the day. He had a company to run, a world to conquer, and, if he played his cards right, a woman to win over.

February - London - Angel (formerly Mark)

A week later, Angel lay on the scuffed laminate floor of her room, sweat-soaked and half-naked, one leg braced on the radiator and the other twitching from some half-remembered gym routine. She checked her phone again—nothing from Mark. She’d called his NYC office twice in the last hour and was given the runaround. Flights: still in the four-figure range, unless she wanted to sleep in the lavatory or, more likely, ship herself over in a cargo hold.

Rent was due in six days. Her cut from the last three Elephant shifts had been decent, but she still had to buy groceries, protein powder, and the extra-strong wax strips that Ruby had sworn by.

She stared at the calendar taped crookedly to the wall. She’d started marking off days in red marker, a habit left over from (Mark’s) childhood. It took her two minutes to realize that her last period was… fuck, when? She counted the Xs backwards, squinting at the numbers. At least two weeks late.

She laughed at the idea—her, pregnant. No way. She hadn’t had a single period since the swap. Maybe her body was still recalibrating. Maybe it was just the stress, or the protein shakes, or the fact that she’d gone from CEO to “exotic dancer” in two months. Or maybe it was that bit of shimmering parchment.

She went to the mirror, lifted her shirt, and checked for signs—of what, she wasn’t sure. Belly was flat as ever, abs a little more pronounced now that she’d figured out her carb intake. Breasts looked the same: a touch fuller since the swap, but nothing scandalous. The tattoos were still there, all sharp edges and color, and the birthmark on her thigh was the same shade of not-quite-brown. No nausea, no cravings, no mood swings beyond the standard existential terror.

Angel put on her sports bra and joggers, pulled her hair into a tight ponytail, and zipped up the battered hoodie. She had a pole session with Maud in twenty minutes, and the only thing worse than missing practice was listening to Maud’s “I told you so” all week.

She checked the phone again. Still nothing.

Angel grabbed her keys, and headed out. If there was anything wrong with her, she’d deal with it the same way she did everything else: denial, violence, and work.

February - London - Angel

It was a Thursday, which at the Licorice Elephant meant no fewer than two hen parties, one minor rugby team, and a slew of bankers in suits who thought being generous with tips gave them license to act like the club was a zoo and the girls were the flamingos.

Angel arrived sweaty from her bike, locked it to the rail, and ducked in the staff door. The changing room was already a chemical warfare zone: hairspray, heat from the straighteners, faint notes of talcum and sweat and Ruby’s signature CK One.

“Oi, Angel.” Ruby Tuesday was at the lockers, towel around her shoulders and the world’s most garish tiger-print bra in hand. “You’re early. I like it. There’s a reptile in blue suit at table two, name’s probably something like ‘Clive.’ Watch out—he’s got wandering hands and thinks ‘no’ is a negotiation.”

Angel dropped her bag and cracked her knuckles. “Want me to knee him if he tries it?”

“Nah, let him spend first. But if he corners you, just say ‘champagne room’s closed for deep clean.’ I’ll handle the rest.” Ruby snapped her bra on with a pop. “You owe me for the makeup hack, by the way.”

“Fine,” Angel said. “I’ll teach you a pole trick later.”

Simone Laurent sashayed in, dressed in a mesh dress that left nothing to the imagination. “Everyone’s grumpy today. What’s the beef?”

“Kids undercutting prices,” Ruby grunted. “There’s a couple of twenty-year-olds out front doing two-for-one lap dances. Ruins the market.”

Angel didn’t say it, but she had noticed the shift. The Elephant was still top-tier, but there was always someone younger, hungrier, or just more willing to bend the rules. The older dancers stuck together, but the new crop had no loyalty, not to the house, not to each other, sometimes not even to themselves.

She found her station at the mirror, where a new girl was struggling with a tangled garter. “Let me,” Angel said, and untwisted the bands with two quick tugs. She smoothed the fabric over the girl’s thigh, then stepped back. “Perfect.”

The girl blushed. “Thanks. Sorry. First week and my hands are all nerves.”

“Don’t sweat it. Just keep your eye on the bouncers and if a guy gets weird, look for Ruby or me.” Angel paused. “And don’t listen to anyone who tells you to do extras.”

Ruby winked at her in the mirror. “Look at you, big sister.”

Angel narrowed her eyes at Ruby. “Don’t push it. And I was your big sister once.”

She stretched, rolling her shoulders and back, but everything ached. The two-hour pole session with Maud had left her stiff and, under one arm, raw with a rash from gripping. She slathered on some Vaseline, grimacing.

Ruby leaned in. “You alright?”

“Yeah. My armpit’s on fire, though. Might have a yeast thing from the pole?”

Ruby pursed her lips. “Don’t fuck around with that. If it’s not better by tomorrow, ask Maud. Or see a pharmacist.”

Angel hesitated, then asked, “You ever get like… weirdly tired? Even after you sleep?”

Ruby’s face shifted, softer. “Yeah, hon. All the time. Especially if you’re off your cycle.” She made a face. “Just wait ‘til you’re forty. You’ll want to murder the world.”

Angel forced a laugh, filed that for later.

Simone plopped down next to her, opening her own makeup kit. “Anyone have a spare contour stick? Mine’s dead.”

Angel tossed hers over. Simone grinned. “Lifesaver.” As she blended, she said, “So I’m getting my tits done next month. Finally. And maybe a little BBL if I can swing the loan.”

Angel shrugged. “Your body, your rules.”

Simone winked at her. “You wouldn’t know it, Miss Fitness Model. Some of us weren’t born with perfect genetics.”

Angel looked at herself in the mirror, at the hard lines of her arms, the cut of her jaw, the stubborn flatness of her chest. It used to feel like an asset. Lately, she wondered if she’d missed the memo about what “feminine” was supposed to look like.

Ruby caught her looking and smirked. “Don’t let it get to you. Plenty of punters love the action-figure thing. Besides, Simone’s got the personality of a wet blanket after three drinks.”

Simone stuck out her tongue, then snapped her bodysuit into place and strutted off.

“Seriously,” Ruby said, low. “Don’t fuck with your body. You’re not getting a second one.”

Angel nodded, unsure why that stung. She finished her face, threw on her set and headed out.

The night was a blur. Three sets, four champagne rooms, two hour-long privates, one guy who paid for the full hour just to sit and talk about his divorce while Angel stroked his head. Clive in the blue suit tried to grab her ass; she redirected his hand so smoothly he never realized he’d been handled. Then she asked for a bigger tip just for the trouble. On break, she helped the new girl fix her lashes and lent her a tissue when she started to cry after a particularly gross client.

Backstage, Ruby poured herself into a beanbag and tossed off her wig. “Jesus. This week’s a killer.”

Angel sat beside her, letting herself finally sag. “You want to split a cab home after close?”

Ruby grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.”

They watched Simone preen in the mirror, then Maud’s reflection as she checked the nightly sheet. The club had made good money; everyone would walk away happy, except the ones who’d hustled for nothing.

Ruby glanced at Angel. “You ever think about quitting?”

Angel considered. “Some nights. But then what? I’m not going back to the real world.”
Ruby smiled, tired but real. “You could run the place, you know. After Maud. You’re the only one who scares the boss.”

“Yeah, right,” Angel said,.

Ruby finished her water and stood. “Don’t take shit from anyone, okay? And if that bitch Susie tries to poach another one of your regulars, tell Maud. She’ll fix it.”

Angel’s mind flickered to Susie; blonde, conniving, always hovering near the best tippers. “I can handle it.”

“Not if she starts spreading stories, you can’t,” Ruby said. “Protect your brand.”

Angel didn’t know whether to laugh or shudder.

After more than two months of performing at the Licorice Elephant, Angel often found herself slipping into a mental haze during her sets. As she danced, her body moved through the routines with practiced grace, but her mind wandered. Thoughts of grocery lists jostled for space with unresolved issues from her past and plans for the evening, anything to distract from the weight of being there. The music pulsed around her, but it felt like a distant echo; each sway and spin became automatic, a survival mechanism designed to shield her from the vulnerability that came with baring herself to an audience.

After a few weeks, what had once felt shocking or transgressive for Angel had morphed into the mundane. The initial fear and then thrill of shedding her clothes under the club lights faded, replaced by a numbness that dulled her senses. The nudity, once a raw exposure of vulnerability, became just another part of the job, an obligatory act stripped of its emotional weight. In those moments, she felt like a ghost inhabiting a familiar shell, present yet detached, navigating the delicate line between performance and reality.

She still had uncomfortable flashbacks of her previous life as Mark, still felt keenly at times the loss of status and power she once had. The relentless grind to make ends meet was familiar but utterly different from his time as a man. But Maud, Ruby, Simone, most of the girls at the Elephant made it a bit easier. She never had relationships with that degree of intimacy in his previous life, certainly not with his late father or even his college mates.

When the night was over, she split the take: House got their cut, DJ and security got their tips, Ruby got her finder’s fee for the one VIP. All told, Angel pocketed fifteen hundred in three shifts.

She hid the cash in a tampon box in her bag, changed back to street clothes, and waited outside for Ruby, who took forever.

In the dark, Angel checked her phone again. Still nothing from Mark.

She shook her head, lit a cigarette, and watched the streetlights flicker on. The world kept spinning, and so would she.

March - London - The Licorice Elephant - Angel

It was the first Friday in March and the Elephant was packed to fire hazard, city boys and tourists stuffed into every red velvet nook, the line outside snaking down the block. Angel was midway through her second set when she saw Evangeline Hunter walk in.

Hunter was in a navy pantsuit and had her hair in a chignon. She sat at the main bar and didn’t order, just surveyed the crowd with the polite boredom of a surgeon before a minor procedure.

Angel finished the set with a flourish, did her lap around the floor, and pretended not to look back. She checked the rotation sheet and tried to disappear backstage, but Maud intercepted her at the stairwell.

“Special request,” Maud said, pushing a brass token into Angel’s palm. “VIP suite. Party of one.”

Angel didn’t have to ask who. She walked the gauntlet, past the regulars and the leering tourists, into the deep plush of Suite Three. Hunter sat at the back of the banquette, arms draped along the velvet, legs crossed. She looked like she owned the building.

“Angelique,” Hunter said, voice as mild as tea. “Thank you for making time.”

Angel sat across from her, back straight. “It’s my pleasure. Would like a drink or maybe a dance?”

“I’ve already ordered a bottle of French Bloom,” Hunter replied. “And the Billionaire’s mocktail there is for you.” Hunter pushed the glass over to Angel and encouraged her to take a sip.

“It’s lovely,” Angel said, leaning back on the plush seat and edging towards Hunter as she would a normal guest.

“Tonight, it’s your art,” Hunter said. She placed a thick envelope on the table. “I’d like to reserve your entire evening.”

Angel picked up the envelope, thumbed through it. It was five thousand, easy. “What’s the catch?”
Hunter shrugged. “No catch. I enjoy watching excellence.”

Angel felt a chill but kept calm. “Thank you, you’re very generous.”

“Excellent, now that I have your undivided attention... ” Hunter said. She folded her hands. “Tell me. Does it bore you? Dancing for these men?”

Angel considered lying. “Some nights.”

“And the others?” Hunter’s voice was honeyed, almost maternal.

“Some nights, it’s electric,” Angel said. “You see the moment they decide to want you. It’s a kind of power.”

Hunter nodded, satisfied. “Does it ever feel like loss?”

Angel blinked. “What do you mean?”

Hunter’s eyes were a study in indifference. “Do you ever feel yourself slipping, the more you perform? Do you worry there’s nothing left but the act?”

Angel bristled. “I don’t perform for free.”

Hunter smiled. “That’s exactly what I hoped to hear. May I ask for a demonstration? Not a dance just yet—just show me the tattoo on your thigh.”

Angel exhaled, tension breaking. This was easy. She was still wearing a relatively fresh set of lingerie—a sequined bra and panty set—so there was nothing to it. She stood, put one heeled foot on the cocktail table, and exposed the geometric design on the soft part of her left inner thigh. She held it, steady, as Hunter leaned forward, inspecting the lines with academic interest.

“It’s beautiful,” Hunter said. “Do you ever regret it?”

“No,” Angel said.

“Show me the other one,” Hunter said. “The one above your hip.”

Angel didn’t hesitate. She turned, placed the same heeled foot on the sofa and displayed the black heart tattoo on her hip.

“I love your confidence,” Hunter said, almost gently. “But I wonder, do you prefer being watched, or doing the watching?”

Angel smiled instinctively. “Is this a job interview?”

“In a way,” Hunter said. “You ever think about what you’d be if you weren’t here?”

Angel shrugged. “That’s almost a cruel question. But every girl here has an exit plan.”

Hunter watched intently. The air in the room was thick, and Angel realized she’d been holding her breath. Hunter patted the seat beside her. “Come. Sit. You’re not in trouble. You’re delightfully honest and a very charming girl.”

Angel sat, perched on the edge, then lay back beside Hunter to allay any suspicions. Hunter leaned in, close enough that Angel could smell her perfume.

“You have a wonderful body. I don’t think men really realize just how much effort it takes to maintain something like this.”

Angel smiled. “Thank you. Is this your first visit to the Elephant? What brings you here tonight?"

Hunter leaned back slightly, a sly smile creeping onto her lips. "Well, let’s just say I’ve been dealing with a rather persistent issue at work—some man trying to muscle his way into my company. It’s all being handled, of course, but I wonder if you have any clever suggestions for someone in my position?"

Angel cocked her head, feigning innocence. "Oh, navigating corporate politics can be quite the minefield. I mean, sometimes it takes a certain... finesse to keep the wolves at bay, wouldn’t you agree?"

Hunter's eyes glinted with intrigue. "Precisely. It’s all about knowing how to play the game. But tell me, do you have any experience in dealing with such... aggressive competitors?"

"Well," Angel said, her tone dripping with feigned sincerity, "I’ve always believed that a little charm can go a long way. Perhaps a strategic distraction might turn their attention elsewhere? Or maybe even a well-timed show of strength?"

Hunter chuckled softly, her gaze unwavering. "Interesting thought. You seem to have a knack for understanding power dynamics. I wonder how you learned to navigate such treacherous waters."

"Let’s just say I’ve had my fair share of lessons," Angel replied. "But enough about work. What about you? Do you like what you see here?"

Hunter leaned in closer, her voice low and conspiratorial. "Oh, I do enjoy a good view.” Then almost sheepishly, Hunter said, “I’m sorry for being so vulgar but I wanted to see you up close.” She paused, as if calculating something. “Would you be willing to remove your top?”

Angel hesitated for a microsecond, then did. She reached back and unclipped her bra with practiced ease, then shrugged off the straps slowly and seductively allowing the bra to fall into her lap; and arched her back displaying her breasts to the older woman. It was clinical, almost medical.

Hunter nodded at the piercings. “Those must have hurt.”

“A little,” Angel said, not sure why she was answering since it was the other Angel who had tolerated the piercings and the tattoos.

“May I?” Hunter’s hand hovered, not quite touching.

Angel nodded. Hunter brushed the ring lightly, then let her finger rest just above the areola for a few seconds; then withdrew. “Your breasts are immaculate. I wish I had breasts like yours.”

They sat in silence for a moment as the older woman admired Angel’s physique. Then Hunter reached into her coat pocket and set a single fifty-pound note on the table. “Now, would you show me your splits?”

Angel’s jaw clenched. She stood, walked to the center of the room, and dropped gracefully into a perfect center split, hands braced on the floor, leaning back to fully expose herself. Her G-string cut high on her hips; everything else was on display. She looked up at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster; this would have been just another night except that Hunter’s presence reminded her of that other life.

Hunter placed another fifty on the table. “Beautiful.” There was a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “How about a lap dance?”

Angel pulse quickened at the challenge. “Would something R & B do?” she asked. Hunter nodded and Angel walked with a gentle sway to the intercom and asked a staff member to convey the request to the DJ who piped the music through to the room within seconds. Then she stepped forward, hips swaying with the sultry rhythm as she closed the distance, feeling the heat radiate from Hunter’s gaze. With each movement, she twerked and undulated slowly, her body a fluid cascade of curves and confidence.

As she drew closer, Angel cupped her breasts, lifting them slightly to tease Hunter, showcasing her flawless skin and enticing piercings. The air thickened with desire as she sank to the floor, executing a perfect split right at Hunter's feet. Her legs formed a tantalizing V, and she let her hand drift down, resting on her crotch, a bold invitation. In that moment, with her labia subtly exposed and the unmistakable outline of her camel toe on display, Angel felt a rush of exhilaration wash over her. She was lost in the performance, the world around her fading away as she slipped into the rhythm of her program, each move designed to enthrall. Her gaze did not leave that of Hunter’s at any point during the routine.

Hunter crossed her arms. “You know, I always admired your discipline. Even when you were... ” She paused, as if selecting the word. “ ...a man.”

Angel’s world inverted. For a second, the floor felt like it was tilting.

Hunter watched her, lips pursed. “Does it hurt? Knowing you lost everything for nothing?”

Angel didn’t answer. She reached for her bra, but Hunter’s hand flashed out, pinning her wrist.

“Don’t,” Hunter said, voice flat. “We’re not done.”

Angel pulled away, but the room was suddenly smaller.

Hunter smiled. “You’re not the first to cross me, Angelique. But you’re the first to do it with such style. I almost respect it.”

“Why are you doing this?” Angel whispered.

Hunter’s eyes glinted. “Because I can.”

She leaned back, expression almost pitying. “You’re not the first to try to take what isn’t theirs. You won’t be the last. But I want you to know what it means to be at the bottom. To be powerless.”

Angel felt something inside her snap and her resolve hardened. “You think this is punishment? I’ve lived worse.”

Hunter laughed, low and soft. “Not like this.”

She stood, smoothed her suit, and left the envelope and the fifties on the table. “I have a nice surprise in store for you, by the way. The papers will love this story.”

She walked out, leaving Angel in the too-bright room, bare-chested, and shaking. Angel sat for a long time, staring at the money, then pulled her top back on and gathered the cash, hands trembling. She wanted to cry, but couldn’t. She’d been played.

It took less than twelve hours for the story to hit the Sun. Angel woke to a chorus of missed calls and a link from Ruby: “u are FAMOUS xx.”

The headline: BILLIONAIRE’S DIRTY SECRET! Mark Steele’s Stripper Lover EXPOSED. Below, two blurry shots. One a photoshopped image of Angel in a gold rhinestone bra at the Elephant, another of her at the corner offie, smoking and looking, frankly, like shit. The article managed to hit all the high notes: “fallen heiress,” “sexual deviancy,” “high-end flesh trade.”

Angel almost laughed at the idea of being high-end or even an heiress, fallen or otherwise. And they had clearly photoshopped her breasts to make them look larger than they actually were.

Maud came in holding the print edition, face paler than usual. “You want coffee, or just the whiskey?”

Angel took both, drained the whiskey first. “At least they didn’t say I was on drugs.”

Maud pointed to a sidebar. “See page six.”

She did. There it was: “Angelique Valentine, known as ‘Angel’ to fans and clients, previously struggled with substance abuse but has ‘turned her life around’ as one of the Elephant’s top performers.” Next to it: a quote from an “anonymous former employer” about how Angel “could’ve been anything she wanted; shame about the choices.”

Angel threw the paper. “Bollocks! I don’t even have a CV.”

Maud tried to hug her, then thought better of it and made more coffee.

It got worse as the day went on. The club owner called: “Stay away for a week, let it blow over.” Her regulars texted, some supportive, some creeps, all of them idiots. The landlady left a message about “moral decency” and implied the rent would go up. Angel shut the phone off and lay on the sofa. She thought of Mark, how he’d have handled this: probably sued the paper, then bought it, then fired everyone who worked there. Except he wasn’t Mark, not anymore.

March - New York - Mark

On the other side of the Atlantic, Mark Steele’s life was a bit less than perfect.

Victoria Middleton had a small war room set up in the east conference suite: crisis comms, legal, and one PR flack who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. Lena Park was there too, eyes ringed in red from lack of sleep but razor-sharp as ever.

Victoria started. “We need to respond before the markets open. Denial will look like guilt. Playing the victim will backfire.”

Mark interrupted. “What about ignoring it?”

Victoria glanced at Lena, who shook her head. “If we do, they’ll find worse. We need to get ahead.”

The PR flack stammered, “There’s some sympathy for her online. She’s working, she’s not hiding anything, it’s almost… refreshing?”

Mark smiled wolfishly. “Let’s lean into it. She’s an honest worker, I’m a reformed bastard, everyone loves a redemption arc.”

Victoria slid over a folder. “We’ll have to bring her to the US, make it look legitimate. Preferably with a supportive family member. There’s a sister or roommate?”

Mark’s mind spun. Maud. She’d need to bring Maud. Somehow, she had forgotten all about Maud. He felt something like nausea for a moment.

“Get them visas, set up a condo, and put Maud—that’s her room mate—on my health plan. No cost spared,” Mark said. “And make sure Angel doesn’t get sandbagged by the press.”

Lena’s voice was cold. “You care about her now?”

Mark met her gaze. “I care about not being taken down by Evangeline Hunter and her pet tabloids. This is all a move. You know that.”

Lena looked away.

Victoria cut in. “Next issue: to defuse the affair angle, we’ll need you and Angel to appear publicly affectionate. You can manage that, can’t you?”

Mark nodded, but inside he wanted to puke.

March - London to New York - Angel

The flight from Heathrow to JFK was largely uneventful.

At the airport, a woman in a black suit handed her a packet with tickets, a prepaid phone, and a new set of “statement outfits” that looked like they belonged to an influencer or cheap model.

Maud sat across the aisle, leg propped up, watching movies and pretending not to be nervous. Angel wanted to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Hunter’s face.

She tried to imagine how this would end. Maybe the media would forget her in a week. Maybe Mark would have a meltdown and they’d swap back and she’d wake up with a hangover and a billion-dollar company. Maybe Maud would finally get her surgery and they’d move to Spain. But more likely, she’d fuck it all up and end up exactly where she started: a body, a job, and a name she couldn’t quite believe.

The “condo” was nicer than any hotel she’d ever seen, three bedrooms and a balcony view of Central Park. The fridge was already stocked, the bathroom stacked with high-end skincare and more tampons than a Tesco. A whiteboard in the kitchen had a schedule, color-coded: "Photoshoot,” “Philanthropy event,” “Red Carpet,” “Joint interview with Steele.” In the corner, a vase of lilies and a note: “Rest up. Orientation at 10. – V.M.” Angel guessed that was Victoria Middleton.

Maud was in heaven. “Bloody hell, you could eat off these floors.”

Angel laughed, actually laughed. “Don’t tempt me.”

She poured two glasses of the best orange juice she’d tasted in months and clinked them with Maud’s. “To being famous for all the wrong reasons.”

Maud smiled, but there was worry under it. “You’re going to kill it, you know.”

Angel shrugged. “Let’s just hope I don’t kill anyone.”

The next day, Angel was summoned to Steele Tower.

Victoria Middleton greeted her with a firm handshake and placed a thick binder labeled “Public Image and Relationship Management – Confidential” on the conference room table.

Victoria started, efficient as a guillotine. “You and Mark will be photographed together often. Hand-holding, cheek kisses, nothing overt. In private, you can do what you like, but if there’s a camera, you’re on.”

Angel opened the binder. Pages of rules: how to greet, how to dress, how to deflect “bedroom questions” with humor but never details. There was a section on Maud: “Family Angle,” “Health Crisis as Redemption Narrative,” “Potential for Public Speaking on Women’s Health.”

Angel whistled. “This is next-level. Are we getting married next week?”

Victoria didn’t blink. “The answers to that question would be in the Appendix under M for Marriage and W for Wedding. Please check the index as well. And, in answer to your question, if the story demands it, yes. Until then, you’re engaged. Here’s the ring.” She set a velvet box on the table.

Angel opened it. The diamond was almost vulgar. “You’re shitting me.”

Victoria smiled. “Wear it left hand, always.”

Angel closed the box and pocketed it. “You know, in the movies, this is where the fake couple falls in love and runs off together.”

Victoria’s face didn’t move. “This isn’t the movies.”

Angel stood. “Right. Guess I’ll see the boss, then.”

“Tomorrow. I hope you haven’t got too comfortable at the new place because you’re moving in with Mr. Steele ASAP,” Victoria told Angel firmly, raising her hand to stop Angel from interrupting. “If you’re worried about Ms. Winters, we’ve already set up an Orthopedic consult for her tomorrow. She’ll get the works, MRI, ACL surgery, rehab, whatever. Also a live in nurse once she gets surgery since you won’t be around. You’ll ”

“As efficient as always, Victoria,” Angel replied.

Victoria’s brow furrowed but she allowed herself a rare smile, one that hinted at her meticulous nature. “We’re very thorough here. Please pay special attention to the first five sections of the file.

“One last thing, I’d like to confirm some of your measurements Height: 5'7" Weight: 120 lbs Bust size” 34 inches US bra size 34B. Waist: 24 inches US size XS–S. Hips: 36 inches US size XS–S. Shoe Size: 8 Top Size: S or XS.”

Angel was stumped and simply shrugged her shoulders. She hadn’t bought that many clothes in the last 3 months and didn’t know anything about US sizes for women.

“Don’t worry, the tailors will be meeting you once you settle in and we can get accurate measurements then. In the meantime, we’ll stick with what we’ve got to fill up your wardrobe with the necessities. We can’t have you wandering around New York by yourself just yet buying clothes.”

With that, Angel tucked the binder under her arm, the heavy ring weighing down her pocket, and left the room.

Moments later, Mark entered, his demeanor sharp and focused. “What’s your impression of her?” he asked, nodding toward the door Angel had just exited.

Victoria leaned back in her chair, contemplating. “She’s resilient, but there’s an edge of vulnerability. I think she’ll adapt, but she needs to be careful. The media won’t let up easily.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And the file? What’s in it?”

Victoria handed him the USB stick. “Detailed findings on Hunter and Silk, including acquisition practices. There’s a section on something called the Parchment—an ancient codex, pieces of which the Hunter family is interested in and collecting at vast cost. Some say it’s tied to a family curse, others says that it can cause a kind of mental illness or serious personality changes. Seems like a lot of mumbo jumbo but I’ve included it together with the more empirical stuff. It seems Silk been involved in some questionable acquisitions, particularly with rare artifacts.”

Mark raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Questionable how?”

“Rumors suggest they’ve exploited vulnerable sellers and manipulated markets to obtain these antiquities. We need to keep a close eye on their operations.”

Mark nodded, digesting the information. “Let’s ensure we’re prepared for whatever comes next.”

March - New York - Mark Steele’s Penthouse

Moving in together was a clusterfuck of epic proportions.

The condo had three bedrooms, but the PR playbook was clear: “fiancés” slept in the same bed, cooked breakfast together, even “shared a bathroom” for the benefit of lurking paparazzi and the stray drone outside their window.

Angel took the master, but Mark installed himself on the adjacent chaise and announced he would “stand guard in case you murder me in my sleep.” They bickered about everything: who got the rain shower first; what counted as “real coffee;” what to play in the morning—Mark wanted Dua Lipa or BTS, and Angel preferred Bach and Radiohead.

The first night, Angel found Mark sitting cross-legged on the rug, rolling her—his—old Patek watch over and over in his hands.

“You miss your stuff?” Mark asked.

Angel looked up, face unreadable. “You could always buy me a new Patek. I don’t miss the stuff. I miss knowing what I’m supposed to be.”

Mark smirked. “That’s rich. You used to run a company. Now you run a blender and Netflix remote.” Mark tossed the watch onto the end table. “Careful, or I’ll revoke your orange juice privileges.”

“Fine, but you’re still taking the futon tonight. What a wanker.” Angel closed the door and listened for his retort, but none came.

Living together was like starring in a surreal reality show.

They knew each other’s histories, but the physicality was always a loop of surprise and adjustment. Mark still forgot to close the bathroom door. Angel used his razors without asking which was infuriating (Mark told his PA to get her some lady’s razors and get her membership at a waxing facility). Mark cooked eggs at midnight (Maud had expressed surprise when Angel stopped doing this). Angel cycled to Central Park at dawn, returning with bagels and bruise-colored shins,which made Mark complain that she was damaging his body, even though he was secretly pleased that Angel had continued with her exercise regime.

Sometimes, at 3 a.m., they’d find themselves in the kitchen, clad only in their underwear, picking at leftover Chinese food while debating which company might weather a bear market.

One night, Angel caught Mark staring at his reflection in the gleaming stainless steel fridge, his fingers tracing the outline of her former jaw. “Do you ever want to swap back?” she asked, her voice low.

Mark shrugged, a hint of contemplation in his eyes. “Sometimes. But then I look in the mirror and think, this is better.”

“Yeah,” Angel replied, her tone softening, “but it’s mine.”

Mark’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of determination igniting within him. “And it’s mine to wreck. Or maybe to fix.”

Angel leaned against the counter, crossing her arms as she studied him. “Why are you so determined to make me angry? We were having a friendly conversation just a while ago. It’s not as if I’ll be slipping back into the CEO position any time soon with this.” Angel pointed to her body with her hands.

“I made my peace with the situation some weeks ago. Even more so now that I know that you had nothing to do with it,” Angel said, sitting on a kitchen stool. “I didn’t like the work or the shitty money all that much but I like Maud and the girls. But I’m still angry with you for not answering my calls for three months. And what kind of selfish prick abandons Maud the moment she comes into money. The least you could have done was to send her some for surgery. It’s literally been months since you had the chance. You’re definitely as much of an asshole as I once was.”

Then as if realizing she’d been ranting, she added, “On the bright side, you really are getting the hang of this business. I didn’t expect you to grasp the intricacies so quickly. So don’t fuck it up! I still want a billionaire lifestyle without all the work.”

Mark leaned against the counter, his brow furrowing as he processed Angel's words. “You’re right,” he finally admitted, his voice low and edged with sincerity. “I’ve been selfish. I’ve been so caught up in my own mess that I forgot about the people who matter. It’s not an excuse, but I didn’t know how to handle any of this; this life, your life, our lives.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I never intended to abandon Maud or anyone else. I just... I thought I needed to distance myself from the chaos. But that was cowardly. You’re right to be angry. You’re right to call me out.” His gaze flickered away, lost in thought for a moment before returning to her. “I see now how much you care for the girls, for Maud. I should have sent help. I should have been better.”

Angel didn’t show any emotion on her face but it was a bit disconcerting for her to see Mark acting this way.

A slight smile tugged at the corners of his lips, a hint of admiration mingling with remorse. “And you’re right about the business too. I’ve had to adapt quickly, and it’s been eye-opening, learning how you navigated it. I didn’t expect to learn so much from you, or to feel this... connection to it all. It’s strange, isn’t it? How this life has become ours, even if it’s not what we wanted?”

He paused, searching her eyes for understanding. “I don’t want to screw it up, Angel. I want to make things right, for both of us. I’m not going to wreck your body or your company, I’m going to make it better, if I can. I owe you that much. So, let’s figure this out together. I may not have all the answers, but I’m willing to try.”

Angel thought that there was a chance that things would settle down after that, but it wasn’t quite so simple.

She had even let Mark sleep with her in the master bedroom after the first week, ostensibly at the behest of Victoria and her team, but mainly because she thought it was the right thing to do. But always with a large bolster between them. In the back of her mind, though, Angel knew that the position, the body, everything would still get in the way for Mark.

The next morning, Angel was in the tub, headphones in, eyes closed. Mark barged in but stopped when he saw her.

She was submerged to the collarbone, legs folded out slightly with her knees barely visible over the soap suds, her hair in a messy knot. Mark could see the tattoos, the strong curve of her shoulders.

Angel didn’t move, just glared. “Ever heard of knocking?” she said, yanking out a bud.

Mark didn’t flinch. “I’m late for a call. I need something for my headache.” He reached for the medicine cabinet,

She watched him, daring him to look her way.

Mark’s breath caught. “Do you always stare people down while you’re naked?”

She grinned. “Do you always need to be the alpha?”

He scoffed, then lingered—longer than he should have. Her eyes flickered. He could tell she was waiting for him to leer, to make a joke, to be the pig she’d known from her own past.

He didn’t. He said, “You have a nice back.”

She looked away, something hot and embarrassed in her face. “Yeah, well, you picked it.”

He left, closing the door with a soft click.

The first event was a leukemia charity gala at the Met. Angel wore a scarlet gown slit up to the hip, a clever fuck-you to the dress code. The makeup artist spent an hour erasing her tattoos before Angel wiped off the foundation and told him, “I’m not going in drag.”

Mark looked better than ever in a midnight suit, hair slicked back in a way that made him look both expensive and slightly dangerous. They did the step-and-repeat, posed for a dozen flashbulbs, then hit the ballroom. People stared, of course, but it wasn’t like the Elephant. Here, the gazes were mixed with calculation, the up-and-down scan of people appraising a rival’s jewelry or spouse or IQ.

Angel played her role like a pro. She shook hands, kissed babies, and even danced a half-rumba with a 70-year-old Manhattan doyenne. She called Mark “darling” with a posh English accent in public and “dickhead” in the car ride home. The contrast gave him whiplash.

The press was even weirder. A Vogue writer cornered Angel at the cheese table and asked, “What was your biggest challenge transitioning from performance to high society?”

Angel smiled. “Society’s much the same everywhere. There are more rules here, but fewer consequences.”

The reporter chuckled, mistaking Angel’s candor for humor. “What’s your secret to owning the room?”

Angel took a leisurely sip of her drink, her gaze drifting across the gala's glittering crowd. “Never let anyone decide what you’re worth. Not even yourself.”

The reporter leaned in, intrigued. “And what drew you to this leukemia charity? What’s the mission behind it that resonates with you?”

Angel considered for a moment, her eyes sparkling. “It’s about hope and healing. It’s crucial to support those fighting battles they didn’t choose. Everyone deserves a chance to thrive.”

“Interesting,” the reporter continued, “and if you had to pick, what’s your favorite painting here at the Met?”

A sly smile crept onto Angel's lips. “I have many favorites, but Sargent’s “Portrait of Madame X” is my pick for tonight. It’s fascinating how it captures the tension between sexuality and societal expectations. The black gown was so scandalous that even actresses would have hesitated to wear it for a portrait. It’s not just the dress itself though, but the way she wore it—completely bold and unapologetic. It really stirred the pot back then.”

The reporter nodded, captivated by her passion. Mark overheard all of it and knew she was better at this than he’d ever been.

The next event was a morning TV interview, live. Angel wore navy with gold trim, hair brushed out and face bare except for a little eyeliner. She was stunning, but the tattoos were fully exposed, and the segment’s producer was clearly panicking backstage.

The host, a waxy man in a perma-smile, tried to bait her. “Do you think your… ahem… previous line of work prepared you for the spotlight of being Mark Steele’s fiancée?”

“We’re not engaged yet,” Angel grinned, showing the conspicuous absence of a ring on her left hand; a blatant rebellion against Victoria Middleton’s script. “As for your question, I think being stared at for a living is great prep for live TV. And there are fewer gropers on set.”

The host blinked. “And, er, how about your opinions on Steele’s current merger fight?”

Angel’s answer was a clinical, bullet-pointed breakdown of the proxy war, complete with strategy and stakeholder analysis. She ended casually.

"Think of a hostile takeover like a surprise plot twist in a business drama; where one company tries to take over another, even if the current leaders aren’t on board. It’s not personal; it’s usually about strategy, growth, or unlocking value. While it can lead to positive changes like innovation or better performance, it can also bring uncertainty for employees and customers. Lately, there’s been growing concern among some investors and employees about whether Silk is keeping pace with changes in the industry. While there’s a lot of strength in the brand and the team, there’s also a sense that new ideas and fresh leadership might help unlock its full potential."

The host moved on, visibly rattled.

Mark almost burst with envy, and a little with desire.

After a week, the press pivoted. Angel was no longer a stripper. She was “the most interesting woman in finance,” a “living tattooed disruptor.” The tabloids ran old photos from the club, but even the dirt became currency. The gossip sites photoshopped her next to old money socialites, invented rumors of catfights and midnight brawls.

Angel started to like it.

They hit two more galas and a black-tie at the Guggenheim. Each time, Angel wore something more daring: a mesh panel gown with nothing under, a slinky jumpsuit that left her back bare except for the ink. By the fourth event, even the Manhattan matrons were copying her lipstick.
Mark watched all of it, oscillating between fury and awe.

The PR team kept sending them on photo ops. Angel started choosing her own outfits—tighter, looser, punkier, whatever. Mark, always watching, started to see the logic. There was no consensus about what Angel “should” be, so she decided to be all of it, all at once. She was a chameleon.

Mark was obsessed, but also afraid; afraid that Angel would eclipse him, afraid that she’d get bored and do something wild, afraid that he liked her too much to ever let her go. It was almost a relief when Victoria called them both into the office for a “strategy meeting.”

“You’re killing it,” Victoria said, deadpan. “But the public wants a wedding date. We need to stage the proposal, pronto.”

Angel looked incredulous. “You want to do a fake-proposal on live TV? Is this Love Island? Do you think Americans are morons?”

Victoria tapped her pen. “We’re doing it on the balcony, at sunset, with the press and a drone. I should have thought of this right from the start but I wasn’t sure you were ready.” She looked straight at Angel with an unreadable expression. “By the way, what gave me the idea was the fact that you’re still not wearing the ring I gave you. Just as well as it happens.”

Angel glared menacingly at Victoria but agreed to it all.

Mark watched her leave, hips swaying, and realized he’d never been so attracted to anyone in his entire life. It was completely ridiculous, but he really wanted her.