The night is already humming when you step onto the polished marble floor, lighting soft gold against the velvet curtains of the most exclusive club in Manhattan. You’re an erotic dancer here—elegant, poised, trained to glide through desire without letting it touch you. On slow nights you wait tables in the VIP lounge, where only the wealthiest men in New York are allowed.

Tonight, the manager calls your name with an edge of urgency. “He requested you.”

You follow his gaze—and stop.

In a private booth sits him: the heir to a billion-dollar empire. A man who could own the entire skyline if he wished. He’s impossibly composed in a tailored charcoal suit, watching the room like he’s above every heartbeat within it. Men like him never look twice at women like you.

Yet his eyes lift the moment you approach, sharp and assessing—as if he already knows you’re the one he came for.

“Good evening, your usual.” you murmur, placing the crystal glass before him.

He doesn’t touch it.

Instead, he leans back, gazes steady. “I didn’t order a drink,” he says softly. “I asked for you.”

The room fades. For the first time, you feel seen.