Dear readers, this is not a sequel to There'll Be Some Changes Made, just an entry to the Sansa Stark Fandom Challenge... in the universe of There'll Be Some Changes Made. You can see this as a sort of bonus chapter, I guess.
Here are the rules of the challenge: 'create a one-shot minific about Sansa and any lover from the POV of the lover. It can be any other canon character, preferably true to character, and either canon or AU, but leave Sansa's thoughts or motivations indeterminate.'
If you've read my fics, you know I don't ship Sansa and Petyr Baelish and that I actually find their relationship creepy; I chose to write this from Petyr Baelish's POV because I didn't want to write another SanSan fic. Their dynamics is interesting and for some reason I decided to make this a Prohibition AU one-shot.
Written with love, but not edited by a beta reader: please tell me if you spot any grammar mistake.

The sequins sparkled with Sansa's every movement as she sashayed toward the stage, ignoring his smile and his encouraging words. Indifference was her armor, these days. Go ahead, give me the cold shoulder, as long as you sing and dance for me. One day she'd beg him.

The first time Petyr had seen her auburn locks and her deep blue eyes, the shock had been intense and he distinctly remembered the lump in his throat: when his eyes had fallen on her that day, he had felt like he was seventeen again. Sansa Stark had that effect on him; she never failed to bring him back to his adolescence, to the turmoil he had felt for another red-haired girl - except his young love had been a hopeless one. Unrequited love, Lysa had explained back then, unsuccessfully trying to seduce him. Wrong. Cat felt something for me but her father married her away. I wasn't rich enough for the old man, at the time.

Taking a long drag of his cigarette, he wondered what old Hoster Tully would say if he could see him now. What goes around comes around. His success and his links with the Lannisters had made him a key figure in New York and in the East Coast. His speakeasy and his brothels were crowded every night. Cat was gone, and it was a shame, but her daughter remained and she had been left in his care. He decided who the girl talked to, what she did, what she sang for his customers and more importantly, what she wore.

Over the last few weeks he had taken an interest in women's fashion and dance costumes, preferably made of flimsy fabrics and with strategically placed cut-outs. The girl was just another investment and he had to make the most of her charm; who could blame him if he got an eyeful of Sansa's curves in the process?

Like the nights before, he had chosen the garments she had donned: a brassiere embroidered with copper-colored sequins the dancers of the Ziegfeld Follies would have killed for, beaded harem pants and an abundance of bracelets that tinkled when she danced. He left the wings to admire her performance with the rest of the audience.

As she sang her silly song about a cheik in front of dozens of men crammed in the hall, Petyr couldn't take his eyes off of her; by the third chorus he somehow convinced himself she was singing only for him, that her red lips only moved for him, promising the sweetest of nights in an exotic country, right under the heavenly vault. A burst of applause awoke him from his reverie. As usual Sansa's act was a success and she bowed deeply, several times, before two of the girls took her place. Petyr finished his cigarette, dropped the butt on the floor and strode back to the wings. Already halfway in her change of costume, if the sequined brassiere discarded on the floor was any indication, Sansa hid herself behind a screen.

"Sansa, a word." He bit his lip at once: he sounded desperate and being desperate in front of Cat's lookalike was the last thing he wanted.

The girl glared at him over the top edge of the screen. "I don't have time for a word," she said coldly. "Don't you remember? You demanded that I sing both The Cheik of Araby and There'll Be Some Changes Made. I need to get back onstage in three minutes."

His manicured fingers curled into a fist and his eyes drifted to the stand mirror nearby; the flawed surface of the mirror showed a man in his late thirties, wearing a black tuxedo on which a red carnation stood out. This man, as elegant as he was, looked defeated.

Sansa moved past him to check her makeup in the mirror, smoothing her bobbed hair then grabbing her lipstick tube. As she applied some more lipstick, Petyr stayed behind her, amused to see their reflection. With her shiny evening dress and his dark tuxedo, they looked like a real couple in the intimacy of their bedroom, almost ready to go out for dinner.

"I feel like buying you a new dress," he tried again, brushing her bare arm.

She instantly recoiled. "Thank you, but I don't need anything. If you will excuse me…"

And she was gone. Her nerve disturbed him whenever she answered back or when she refused the presents he showered her with. He watched her running to the stage then disappearing behind the heavy velvet curtains and he let out a sigh. This girl will be the death of me.