The bass from the lounge thudded low like a pulse, steady and thick in the velvet-draped air. The scent of cologne, spilled champagne, and secrets hung heavy as Samantha sat in the dimly lit booth, legs crossed, swirling cheap vodka in a cut glass she couldn't afford to refill.
Her knees ached in heels she borrowed from a roommate she no longer talked to. Her dress—a black slip of silk—was a hand-me-down that clung too tight across her hips. Her lipstick was a little too red, applied with trembling fingers in the back of an Uber she could barely justify taking.
She didn't belong here.
The upscale lounge was a playground for the kind of people who didn't check price tags, didn't blink at $300 cocktails, and didn't work 60 hours a week for rent and ramen. They didn't worry about little sisters who needed prescriptions insurance wouldn't cover, or landlords who left warning notes on the door.
Samantha was drowning, and this place—this glittering, gold-lit jungle—was her last gasp for air.
She looked around, trying to appear casual, but inside, she was all nerves. She'd done the math. If she didn't make a move tonight, she wouldn't make rent. Her sister's meds would run out. She couldn't let that happen again. Not after what happened last time.
Then she felt it.
A gaze—sharp and deliberate. The kind that made your breath catch even before you found the source.
Across the room, in a private booth draped in shadows and confidence, he sat like he owned the city.
Victor Blackwell.
She didn't know his name yet. But the way he sat—legs spread just enough, tie loose at the collar, drink in hand like a king watching his kingdom burn—told her everything.
Power. Money. Control.
And now, his eyes were locked on her.
Samantha tried not to stare, but the moment she glanced back, she saw his smirk. Controlled. Calculated. Like he'd already decided something.
She looked away, flustered. Her throat tightened as she took a nervous sip of her vodka, nearly choking on the bitter burn.
Then, a waitress appeared.
"Excuse me," the girl said with a polite smile. She was young too—but she moved like someone used to being invisible. "He sent this."
A folded napkin and a tumbler of amber liquor were placed in front of her.
Samantha hesitated before picking up the napkin. Her heart thudded in her chest as she unfolded it.
"You're too beautiful to be drinking that garbage. Come sit beside a man who can afford your taste."
She stared at the note, hands trembling slightly. Every warning bell in her head rang loud. She wasn't the kind of girl who got picked out of crowds. She wasn't a high-end escort. She wasn't anyone.
But tonight—she might have to be.
She looked back at him. He raised his glass toward her, a lazy, knowing salute.
Samantha stood.
The distance from her booth to his felt endless. Every click of her heel on the marble floor felt like a countdown. People turned to look. Men nodded with envy. Women watched with sharpened smiles.
She didn't care.
She reached his table and stood tall, despite the shake in her knees.
"Ballsy," she said, placing her hand on the table.
Victor looked her over like she was an investment property he'd already decided to buy. "I like ballsy," he replied. "Sit."
She slid into the leather booth beside him. Not across—beside.
Close.
"Victor," he said, offering his hand. When she took it, his grip was firm, confident, fingers warm and slow to let go.
"Samantha."
He repeated her name like he was tasting it. "And what brings you to a place like this, Samantha? Don't tell me it's just for the drinks."
"I could ask you the same."
"Oh, sweetheart," he chuckled, sipping his bourbon. "I'm always here. Watching. Waiting for something worth noticing."
"And you think I'm worth noticing?"
He turned to her fully now. His presence was magnetic—like standing too close to a fire.
"I think you're broke," he said bluntly. "I think you're too proud to ask for help. And I think you've realized you're running out of time."
Samantha's throat tightened. "Wow. Arrogant and observant."
Victor smirked. "I don't waste time pretending. Neither should you."
A silence stretched between them, thick and electric.
"You want money," he said, voice low. "I have it. In return, I want something very simple."
She didn't flinch—but her pulse fluttered. "Which is?"
"Obedience. Discretion. Beauty. And the willingness to be taught."
Her breath hitched.
He didn't say s*x.
But he didn't need to.
Samantha swallowed. "So… what, you think I'm for sale?"
He leaned in close, lips near her ear.
"Everything is for sale. The question is whether you know your price."
Her skin prickled.
"You'd be taken care of," he continued.
"Rent. Bills. Clothes. Tuition. Even that little pharmacy bill I know is eating away at your gut."
She went cold. "How do you—"
Victor gave a casual shrug. "I do my research."
"You've been watching me?"
"Don't flatter yourself," he said smoothly. "You just happened to walk into a world where girls like you survive only if they're smart."
"And what do you get out of it?"
Victor smiled—slow and wicked. "Control. And someone soft to come home to after ruining men in boardrooms all day."
He reached into his coat pocket and placed a sleek black card on the table.
On it: an address, a time, and a handwritten note.
"Come tomorrow night. Wear nothing underneath."
Samantha stared at it. Her cheeks burned.
"You don't even know if I'm worth the trouble," she whispered, almost to herself.
Victor looked her dead in the eye.
"Oh, sweetheart…" he said, sipping his drink again.
"You're not the one being tested."
She left that night with the card clenched in her hand, her heart in her throat, and her pride in pieces.
She didn't sleep.
Not because she was scared—no, that wasn't it. It was the excitement. The terrifying thrill that she might finally be seen. Desired. Chosen.
All her life, she fought to survive. To be the responsible one. The protector. The fixer.
But what if—for once—she let someone else take care of her?
What if she stopped resisting?
What if she let go?
The next night, when the clock struck 9:00 p.m., she stood in front of the penthouse door, wearing a long coat over black lace and trembling skin.
No bra.
No panties.
No idea what she was about to become.
She lifted her hand… and knocked.