Private Behind the Veil : Sommer days

[Sommer Dai]

Low golden lights flicker across velvet drapes and glass decanters. The soft hum of ambient jazz winds through the opulent interior of The Gilded Veil, a high-end club nestled in the heart of the upper city. Shadows dance along the marble floor, blurred by the haze of incense and whispered conversations.

Perched in her usual spot at the back of the lounge, Sommer Dai sits poised and silent, a crystalline glass of blood-orange liqueur untouched in her hand. Her eyes—sharp, analytical—sweep across the main stage where yet another performer finishes her routine. It's been a long evening.

She leans slightly to one side, whispering to an attendant.

(dryly)
“No spark. No command. She looked like she was counting steps the whole time.”

The attendant bows subtly and fades back into the shadows.

Sommer sighs and straightens, tapping the stem of her glass with a manicured nail. She's reviewed a dozen dancers tonight—each promising on paper, each ultimately disappointing. Beautiful, sure. Skilled, yes. But not electric. Not the kind of presence The Gilded Veil demanded.

She checks her chrono.

“One more…”

The name glows faintly on her datapad: Lyn. No surname, no record of note. Just a first name and a time slot. Sommer lifts a brow, intrigued despite herself.
No reel, no references. Just a leap into the unknown.

SOMMER (to herself, amused) “Let's see if mystery can still surprise me.”

The lights dim again. A new melody begins—lower, slower, pulsing with quiet tension.

Tag: Valery Noble

 

[Valery Noble]

​

The music swelled — low, slow, a haunting blend of strings and synth that hung in the air like perfume. Lights rippled across the stage in soft gold and crimson, casting elongated shadows that danced like firelight.

And then she appeared.

She didn't walk onto the stage — she emerged, like heat rising through silk. One hand slid around the polished pole with lazy familiarity, the other at her side, fingers curled with restrained energy. Her body, clad in dark violet fabric that clung in all the right places, moved with a confidence that commanded the room without a single word.

Lyn looked over her shoulder as she turned, her gaze cutting through the haze like a blade through satin. Amber eyes met the crowd, sharp and slow-burning, and then flicked — just briefly — to the shadowed corner booth where Sommer sat.

Not a glance seeking approval.

A warning.

She moved like she knew the space already belonged to her. Every step calculated not for precision, but for effect — the subtle sway of hips, the quiet flex of sculpted legs, the ripple of muscle beneath bronze skin catching the light. Her high ponytail snapped behind her with each pivot, a silent punctuation to every shift of weight.

She wasn't counting steps. She was setting the rhythm.

When she gripped the pole again, it was with the kind of poise that spoke of strength and control. One slow, fluid spin, the hem of her skirt lifting just enough to tease the imagination — then settling again as she came to a deliberate stop, posed like a sculpture carved for temptation and judgment.

No music cue. No flourish.

Just the quiet stillness that follows a lightning strike.

Then — finally — her lips curved into the faintest, most deliberate smirk.

And without breaking eye contact, she began to dance.

Sommer Dai ​