Saturday morning, Latifa woke to the smell of fresh coffee and a dozen red roses resting on the bed beside her. The faint hum of the percolator drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the scent of roses and something sweet—maybe toast. It was the closest thing she’d ever known to love—or family.

She reached over, plucked a single rose from the bouquet, and lifted it to her face. The petals brushed her cheek, soft as breath. A small smile tugged at her lips. She might not be respectable, but as long as she had Tom, she was happy.

It was almost perfect. The one thing that made it less than ideal was her. She didn’t exactly lie to him, but she wasn’t honest either. Tom thought she worked nights at a twenty-four-hour truck stop diner, slinging coffee and pie to tired drivers. It sounded a whole lot better than I bare it all for the world to see. So she’d just let him believe that.

She finally pushed herself out of the warmth of the sheets, feet brushing against the cool floorboards as she made her way toward the smell of coffee. Sunlight spilled through the thin curtains, striping the hallway in pale gold. Tom looked up from the book in his hands, the corner of his mouth curving before his eyes followed. The steam from his mug fogged the air between them. Men had looked at her with lust, with hunger, even with contempt—but Tom’s eyes held something else. Something that made her chest ache. Love.

And that was the scariest part—because she loved him back.

If it had been anyone else, coffee would come first and conversation later. Without it, her inner bitch was the one running the show. She could growl and snap like a mad dog before the first cup touched her lips—but Tom brought out the softer parts she usually kept hidden.

Latifa crossed the room, tugged the book gently from his hands, and slid onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. She pressed a soft kiss to his throat, and he chuckled, his breath warm against her ear as his arms closed around her.

“Hugs before coffee? Wow,” he whispered. “I must’ve finally seduced your inner coffee demon.”

Latifa laughed. “Or she’s still sleeping.”

Tom pulled her closer and kissed her lips. “Then let her sleep.”

That was how they spent their Saturday mornings—and most of the afternoon. Just a couple of twenty-year-olds falling in love. For a while, it felt almost easy. Latifa even let herself believe that someday she might have a small house, a garden out back, maybe even a family to love.

“So what do you have planned while I’m at work?” she asked, tracing lazy circles along his arm.

It was the one thing she hated about Saturdays. At four o’clock, she’d be on stage under neon lights, while Tom stayed home with his books, waiting for the taxi that dropped her off sometime after three in the morning.

“I need to stop by work and help with inventory,” Tom said, stretching. “And tonight, while you’re slaving away at the salt mines, I’m heading to Duncan’s bachelor party.”

Latifa froze mid-smile. “Duncan’s?”

“Yeah,” he said, completely unaware of the way her heart started hammering. “He’s getting married next weekend. You remember him from the shop, right?”

She nodded, forcing her voice steady. “Right. The shop.”

He immediately added, “Don’t worry, we’re not going to a strip bar. It’s just six guys drinking beer and playing pool.”

Latifa forced a smile. “I wasn’t worried.”

That, of course, was a lie.

The idea of their bachelor party ending up at the Starlight Lounge terrified her—because she was the main attraction. Onstage, she wasn’t Latifa. She was Velvet, the girl who knew how to move, how to make men forget the world outside the neon. She wasn’t proud of those skills, but they paid the bills far better than respectable work ever had.

Still, as Tom reached for his mug and smiled across the table, she wished she could believe her own lie.

The Starlight Lounge pulsed with bass and neon, the kind of light that made everything too bright to be real. The crowd was already loud, drunk on cheap beer and bad decisions. Latifa smoothed the glitter across her shoulders, adjusted the strap of her costume, and tried not to think about Tom. About his roses, his coffee, the soft way he said her name.

The emcee’s voice echoed through the speakers.

“Gentlemen—give it up for Velvet!”

The spotlight hit her like heat. She stepped onto the stage, body moving by memory, by survival. The first notes of the song thudded through her chest. She smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

And then she saw him.

At the back of the room, half in shadow, Tom stood frozen—beer in hand, disbelief carved into every line of his face. Duncan said something beside him, laughing, but Tom didn’t move. He just stared.

For a heartbeat, the noise fell away. The music, the lights, the crowd—it all blurred.

Just her and him.

The girl who wasn’t supposed to exist.

Latifa swallowed hard and kept dancing. The show had to go on.

But deep down, she knew the morning after wouldn’t smell like roses anymore.