The air in The Gilded Peacock hung thick with cigar smoke and the sweet, forbidden scent of bootleg gin. A raucous jazz band pounded out a Charleston, blending with the cacophony of raucous laughter and the clinking of crystal glasses. Tonight wasn't just another night for Wall Street's wolves. Tonight, they were here for Anya, the club's most captivating dame. - Anya, unlike the usual sequined dolls, sashayed out in a simple white flapper dress, its hem a daring few inches above the knee. A hush fell over the room as the music transitioned to a sultry blues number. Anya's dance began as a slow striptease, each movement a calculated unveiling. The white fabric seemed to shimmer under the spotlight, mirroring the bluesy lament of the saxophone with its subtle sheen. - A collective, guttural "Woo-wee!" rippled through the crowd of men. Diamonds sparkled on their fingers as they leaned forward in their plush booths, faces flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with the liquor. This wasn't just a show; it was a play specifically designed to set their pulses racing. As the final layer of white fluttered to the floor, a gasp tore through the room. - Anya stood transformed. Gone was the simple flapper; in her place was a breathtaking vision. Her skin pulsed with an otherworldly glow, adorned with swirling patterns that mimicked the vibrant wings of a rare butterfly, each scale catching the light and glinting like a thousand tiny gemstones. - The music soared, a vibrant melody that spoke of forbidden jungles and untouched beauty. Anya danced, a breathtaking fusion of woman and butterfly, her movements a silent language that only they could seem to understand. Wolf whistles pierced the air, a chorus of approval from the now enthralled men. Their eyes, hungry and covetous, devoured every inch of her metamorphosis. - "Hey there, Butterfly!" one fellow bellowed, his voice thick with whiskey. Another slick character chimed in, "Look at all those jazzberries on you, doll!" Anya fluttered across the stage, a captivating creature both familiar and alien. Some men reached out, as if to capture the fleeting beauty before them, only to find their fingers brushing empty air. Others, mesmerized, watched in a stunned silence, captivated by the silent conversation she seemed to have with the air around her. - The music reached a crescendo, then faded away with a final flourish. Anya stood frozen, a breathtaking sculpture bathed in the spotlight. Then, with a slow, mesmerizing flow, the butterfly-like features receded, leaving Anya, the enigmatic dancer, back on the stage. The smoky haze of The Gilded Peacock shimmered with a phantom echo of the metamorphosis for a moment longer. The room erupted in thunderous applause, whistles, and catcalls. The memory of her fantastical transformation would forever be etched in their minds. Was it mere illusion, a testament to Anya's artistry? Or a glimpse of a hidden beauty, a reminder that even in the heart of a roaring, decadent city, magic could still take flight? The question lingered, unanswered, a secret whispered on the wings of a butterfly. -The Metamorphosis of a Butterfly Flapper Women by Frank Xavier Leyendecker in 1922. - The author died in 1924, so this work is in the public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 95 years or fewer. This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published (or registered with the U.S. Copyright Office) before January 1, 1928.