Priest_by_Sierra_Simone 3

ruined my chances at a happy life, because let’s face it, what man is going to
marry a stripper—no matter where she came from or who she is?
And that was when Sterling came to the club.
Sterling Haverford III. Yes, I know it’s a ridiculous name, but where we
came from, it was par for the course (especially if your estate had its own
golf course.)
I was doodling Mrs. Sterling Haverford in my flimsily locked diaries ever
since I could remember. He was my first kiss, my first cigarette, my first
orgasm. Of course, I know now that I wasn’t his first anything, and that even
while he was dating me, he was fucking other girls. But at the time, I was
convinced we were getting married. That he loved me.
I was convinced of it right up until my parents got the invitation to his
wedding. To Penelope Fucking Middleton.
We’d been off and on, for sure, but I thought it was the distance and how
dedicated I was to school and charity, and fuck, I’m crying now, I’m so sorry.
I’m not even sad about it, I’m just pissed still, that I’d given so much time to
this asshole, and then when I was feeling so low about everything, he had the
nerve to show up at the club.
I assumed he was in town for a business meeting and that maybe a
potential client had brought him to the club for a little extra wooing—not an
uncommon scenario where I worked, especially when it came to the private
rooms in the back. And of all the girls that could have been working that
particular room that night, it was me.
It was fucking me.
I had on six-inch heels and a bright blue wig and he still knew me the
moment I entered, just as I’d known from one glimpse of his profile that it
was him.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, his words carrying like a poisonous melody over
the throbbing music. “Is it really you?”
I stood in the door, having no idea what the fuck to do. I knew I could go
find Mark, explain to him that I knew the client and couldn’t dance for him—
Mark would understand. But even three years after he’d dumped me via
wedding invitation to another girl, I still couldn’t force myself to walk away.
Or stop listening when he started talking.
He said he couldn’t believe it—everyone had thought I’d absconded off to
Europe or someplace exotic and all the while, I had been here. He gestured