From Rags

Tanya woke earlier than usual in her penthouse, stealing into the hush of dawn that cradled Aurora's skyline in soft orange glow. Henry Milton stirred behind her, dark hair tousled across the pillow, his lips parted in a gentle sigh. A pang of old memory flickered at the sight—those early mornings, years ago, when she'd awaken in someone else's bed, ready to move on if it suited her. But Henry was different—world-famous, at times naive, at times heartbreakingly genuine. She slid off the mattress, letting satin sheets slip from her bare skin, draping a robe around her shoulders. Today, she had business with a certain councilman, and her mind needed clarity.

She stood at the glass wall, gazing at the city's neon traces fading under the new sun. The reflection in the window startled her: eyes bright, hair slightly mussed, a woman who once shivered in rags behind a dumpster now cast in luxury. She pressed her palm to the cool glass, recalling her wretched beginning: 

Tanya, born as Tonya, daughter of Rae in a filthy garbage site.

She was only two when her mother died—pneumonia, untreated. By then, they'd been scrounging in shelters, sleeping under tarps. Social services labeled it an "unfortunate case." She ended up in the care of John and Carly Jones, a childless couple with questionable finances but a front that read "stable guardians." Initially, Tonya believed they had saved her from endless hunger. They clothed her, fed her, enrolled her in a local school. But behind closed doors, the Joneses ran a chain of strip clubs. Carly tested the waters by making Tonya dance in front of "friendly" men even before she was of legal age. She'd corner the trembling girl in a dressing room, snapping, "If you don't want to sleep in the street, do as we say."

At fourteen, Tonya performed her first routine at a dingy 6th Avenue joint. She was forced to adopt an adult persona, wearing garish makeup and stage lingerie. Men stuffed dollar bills in her waistband. She learned to read them: their eyes, their gestures, the hush of fascination that overcame them. The revulsion she felt was overshadowed by a savage need to survive. Carly praised her for "bringing in a fortune," while John pressed her to go "further." She quietly promised herself: I'll never remain a victim.

She kept that vow as the years ticked by. At eighteen, she escaped the Joneses' hold, slipping away during a shift's chaos. She hopped trains, wandering the city. She found a new strip club, ironically more respectful toward employees. One night, a fellow stripper teased her about how men showered her with bills "like Valentine's Day." Laughing, the woman called her "Valentine!" The name struck a chord—Valentine. It sounded glamorous, regal, far from the impoverished Tonya Jones she despised. That same week, she changed her surname to Valentine on whatever documents she could falsify. "Tanya Valentine." The identity felt like new skin. She'd left behind the used, broken child to become a woman unstoppable.

Time marched on. She danced in better clubs, prying money and influence from men enthralled by her curves and come-hither smile. Each night, she refined her art of seduction. But forging a real, stable future proved elusive. She drifted from cheap apartment to cheap apartment, sleeping on battered futons, never trusting anyone enough to confide her true beginnings. She still woke shaking from nightmares of that dumpster birth, hearing her mother's dying rasp.

Then came the day she boarded a commuter train, hair pinned up casually, wearing worn denim and an old jacket. She'd heard of a new club that paid triple, wanting "girls with flair." She planned to audition, hopes half-shriveled from repeated letdowns. With a jolt, she noticed a quiet man toying with an old film camera. Something about the way he studied the world around him, capturing fleeting moments of morning light, fascinated her.

She deliberately took a step closer, letting the train's lurch toss her forward. He gasped, dropping a hand to steady her so she didn't fall. She looked up, letting her eyes shimmer with apology.

"S-sorry," she murmured, cheeks warming with feigned innocence.

He relaxed, giving her a gentle smile. "It's fine. These trains can be pretty rough." He wore a leather jacket that smelled faintly of coffee. "I'm… Mike," he added, as though remembering politeness at the last second. "Mike Price."

She tucked a stray hair behind her ear. "Tanya." She paused, deciding on a last name. "Valentine," she said quietly, letting him see a fleeting insecurity in her gaze. "Nice to meet you, Mike."

The overhead speaker garbled station announcements. Mike introduced himself as a fashion and commercial photographer, modestly disclaiming "I've had some lucky breaks." She offered a soft, uncertain laugh, letting him volunteer more. Eagerly, he explained how he sometimes snapped candid shots on trains—"People forget to pose. You see raw stories in their eyes."

Tanya nodded, bridging the gap with a question: "So you… do big shoots in a real studio?"

"Yes. Magazines, brand campaigns. I do test shoots too, discovering new faces." He shrugged, raising his camera with a shy grin. "I spotted you—thought you had something special. Mind if I…?" She feigned a nervous acceptance, letting him snap a candid portrait of her parted lips and curious gaze.

The train squealed to a halt. Her heart hammered. "You're not… just messing with me?" she teased. "I'm no model. I—I just… do little jobs here and there."

He shook his head firmly. "No, you stand out," he said, eyes warm with sincerity. "Look, I can show you my portfolio. If you like it, maybe we can do a quick test shoot? You have an aura for the camera."

She pretended hesitation, parted lips trembling. "I… I don't want to be a bother. Where would we even do that?"

"Um, at my apartment," he said with a half-smile. "It doubles as a studio. We could meet somewhere public first if that's more comfortable." He offered a battered business card. "If you're interested, call me. If not, no worries."

She stared at the card—Mike Price Photography. A swirl of possibility crashed over her. She let a hint of hope shine in her eyes. "I'll think about it," she said, stepping off at her stop.

He lingered on the train, staring after her. She could feel his gaze through the window as it pulled away. Once it vanished, she curled her fingers around the card with fierce purpose. This might be the chance she needed to climb higher. She just had to play her cards right.