The club was private, no paper trails, no names on receipts. It was built for high-end men, the kind who paid for discretion as much as they paid for company. The backstage room was already loud before the club even opened. Hairspray drifted through the air, makeup bags half-open on every surface, and the low bass from downstairs pulsed through the walls like a warning that the night was coming whether they were ready or not.

The girls crowded around the mirrors, fixing lashes, adjusting outfits, and talking over each other in a steady stream of gossip. Frey leaned against the counter, scrolling through her phone with a knowing smirk.

The room smelled like perfume and hair straighteners, and somewhere down the hall a door slammed shut, followed by the muffled sound of the DJ starting a sound check. The night was already pressing in through the walls.