Andrew leads her to a dark room. Smoke hangs thick in the air, and the heavy scent of tobacco mixes with whiskey and wine. The walls are lined in red velvet, and black silk sofas and chairs are scattered throughout the room. Women sashay across the Persian carpets; some are dressed in fishnets and lingerie, and others wear nothing but nipple tassels and thongs.

Avery reaches into her bag and pulls out a tissue to cover her nose, but her eyes water from the smell. Andrew leads her to a black sofa in a small alcove. A curtain rod hangs in front of the alcove, and a red velvet curtain dangles to the side. She looks down at the sofa and wrinkles her nose.

"Is it safe to sit on that?" she asks.

Andrew laughs and pulls her down beside him. She squirms against the silk, wondering what dirty acts have taken place on top of it. She looks around the room, scanning the faces of the women. But the club is dark and designed for privacy—it's impossible to tell if any of them are Gabrielle.

Andrew leans back on the sofa, spreading his arms out on the hardback. A short, curvy girl wearing a school uniform pops her head around the curtain. She winks one bright green eye and twirls her curly, blonde pigtail around her finger.

"Mr. Clifford, I've been a bad, bad girl," she whispers. "I need you to punish me."

She turns around and flips up the back of her plaid skirt, revealing a pale pink thong between two round ass cheeks. She wiggles her ass and spreads her legs, and Avery notices that the girl has dark purple and blue bruise marks all over her ass. Clearly, other men have been punishing her too.

Avery hides her face behind her hands and waits for Andrew to get rid of the girl. Bile and anger churn in her stomach—is Gabrielle out there dressed the same? Has she been suffering the same kinds of humiliations as the schoolgirl?

Andrew grabs her arm and points toward a stage. The red velvet curtain is closed, but two golden spotlights are pointed in the middle.

"Is there going to be a performance?" Avery asks.

"Not just any performance," Andrew says. "Tonight the girls are competing to get to jasmine level. Each girl has to do a performance, and audience members will bid on her for the night. If a girl can get enough money, she'll get promoted."

"Jasmine, what?" Avery asks.

"Shh, it's starting," Andrew says.

The lights go black, and Andrew flicks his lighter and lights a cigarette. The small orange ember at the tip of his cigarette is the only light in the club. Then the spotlights click back on and slow, sultry music begins to play. The curtains sweep open, revealing a slim, graceful figure with long, dark hair.

Avery jumps to her feet—it's Gabrielle. She's halfway out of the alcove when Andrew's hand closes around her upper arm. He drags her back to the sofa and pushes her down.

"Honey, this place is full of armed bodyguards," he says. "You don't stand a chance—not yet, anyway."

"How will I get her out of here?" she asks.

"I haven't thought of a plan yet," he says, stretching back on the sofa. "But don't worry, I always do."

She curses him under her breath and sits on the edge of the sofa. Gabrielle is wearing heavy makeup. Dark smokey eyeshadow rings her large eyes, and her lips are painted wine red. In the glowing lights, her long dark hair makes her skin look even paler.

"Is she going to dance?" Avery asks. "There's no way—the girl has two left feet. She failed every dance class we ever took as kids."

"The club has its own dance instructors," Andrew says, a strange glint in his eyes. "Even the most ordinary woman can become extraordinary here. Besides, there's no way Jackson would let her serve guests unless she's proficient at dancing. And she's already trying to become a Jasmine girl—that's ambitious."

"What is a Jasmine girl?" Avery hisses.

"It's the second tier," Andrew explains. "If she makes it to the jasmine level, she'll get better pay and the opportunity to serve more prestigious clients."

"And if she isn't selected?" Avery asks, already sure she doesn't want to know the answer.

Andrew chuckles, "Well, the lowest ranking girls serve the lowest ranking guests."

Gabrielle stands frozen on the stage. She can feel sweat prickle beneath the thick layer of foundation, and she hopes it's as waterproof as the packaging promised. She looks to the side and sees Ashley and Abbie standing in the wings. Both of them look like they've just sucked on a lemon.

"Why the hell is Gabrielle up there?" Ashley asks. "She's been here for less than a week. Everyone knows you have to work here for at least six months before you're eligible for a promotion."

Abbie shakes her in confusion and says, "In all my time here, I've never seen anything like it. She's a sweet enough girl, but she's hopeless. Even Anna couldn't make her a better dancer. I wonder what Mr. Oliver was thinking, allowing her to go up there."

"It's insulting," Ashley says. "Does she think our work is easy? Does she think just anyone can be a Jasmine girl? She's so underprepared. When she fails up there, we're all going to look bad."

"I don't understand it either," Abbie says. "When she first got here, she never wanted to serve a guest, and now she suddenly wants to serve more of them? There's something wrong with her."

"Whatever, when she fails, I'll look even better," Ashley says.

Gabrielle swallows hard and tries to ignore the women. She's wearing six-inch heels, and it takes every ounce of her concentration to keep her legs from wobbling. If she falls in front of the guests, she'll never get the promotion. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

A large crystal goblet seems to float down from the ceiling. Dark red wine sloshes back and forth, almost spilling over the rim. Gabrielle strikes a pose and then kicks her heels off, revealing her narrow and elegant feet. A few men wolf whistle, and Avery rolls her eyes.

"Do they have a foot fetish or something?" she asks.

Andrew smirks, "Probably."

Gabrielle raises a thin arm and places her hand on the rim of the goblet. She circles around it, swishing her hips back and forth and running her free hand through her hair. She's wearing a white satin minidress, revealing her long pale legs and the enticing half-moons of her ass.

She arches her back and swishes her hair as if she's in complete ecstasy and then climbs up onto the rim of the goblet. She dips her legs into the wine and rubs the dark liquid into her pale skin like she's giving herself a bath. Men holler, and she flutters her thick, dark eyelashes.

"She's not a very good dancer," Andrew says, his voice critical. "She's too stiff. She should be softer and more sensual. A good dancer makes the whole thing look spontaneous instead of rehearsed."

Avery gestures out at the room and says, "Well, they seem to like it."

Gabrielle's ass cheeks hang over the edge of the goblet, and the men scream and whistle. She stands and twirls in the middle of the wine, letting the liquid splash and stain her white dress. She bends over, and the dress rides up, showing a matching white thong. The hollering gets louder.

She smiles and giggles and runs her hand through the wine. She scoops up handfuls and pours it onto her hair. She splashes and stomps as a young girl and men run toward the stage, letting the wine speckle their faces and suits. She smiles down at them and pours handfuls of wine into their open, greedy mouths.

"What do you think now, honey?" Andrew asks. "Do you believe what I said about the special training—that little performance goes so far beyond dancing."

Avery shakes her head in disbelief and says, "That was the strangest striptease I've ever seen. What was it?"

"The art of seduction," he answers.