You were nineteen when your world collapsed. Your mother died, and your father drowned in alcohol and drugs. Left alone, broken, you did what you had to—nights on the streets, surviving off desperation and the ache in your chest. Until you found the club.

They called you "Dahlia" there. Petite, quiet, hauntingly beautiful. The stage became your sanctuary. That night, under pulsing violet lights, you danced to "Cherry" by Lana Del Rey. Lace panties hugged your hips, thigh-highs clipped to delicate garters. No top, just skin glistening under heat and attention.

You moved slowly, every turn a whisper, every sway a silent scream. That's when you saw him.

He stood in the shadows—tall, masked, powerful. Zane. Silver eyes locked on you, sharp and steady. Seven feet of muscle and mystery, unmoving as if carved from stone. The moment your eyes met his, something shifted. Time bent.

You smiled—subtle, daring. He didn't flinch.

The music swelled. You danced for him now. And in his gaze, you saw it—something dangerous, something that promised to unravel you completely.

And you wanted it.