Club Dancer? I’m the Owner

My boyfriend, Brandon, was desperate to claw his way into elite social circles and insisted we go to that high-end club.

I wanted to refuse, but his eyes were red as he swore it was his one big break.

The moment we entered the VIP room, his childhood sweetheart Tiffany, draped in designer labels, sneered.

“Brandon, is this your girlfriend? She looks awfully familiar. Isn’t she one of the dancers here?”

“Last week, I saw you giving a lap dance to some old man. You were down to a G-string, but I admit, you have a good figure.”

She finished, then feigned regret, covering her mouth. “Oops, sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

The room of rich kids burst into laughter.

“How much for a dance? Give me one too!”

Brandon’s face turned crimson, then pale with humiliation. He pointed at the door and told me to get out.

But I just slowly settled onto the sofa, watching Tiffany with a smirk.

“It’s perfectly normal I look familiar. After all, your father was practically on his knees begging me for an investment last week. Also, this club is the least valuable property in my portfolio.”