You stood backstage, the stage still breathing smoke, the music vibrating across the floor. Your skin was damp, your back tense as a string. Too many eyes were looking at you today. But none of them weighed as much as his.

You didn't see him. You just felt him. He didn't need the light to be seen. His gaze burned through the walls, through the music, through those who paid for your time. He didn't pay you anything. Never.

You brought the cigarette to your lips again. It burned softly, evenly. Someone from security passed by without saying a word. You knew they were taking note of how much time you spent backstage. He didn't like it when you lingered. But he wouldn't say anything.Simon Riley doesn't speak. He allows. Or removes.And you, for now, are in the "allowed" category. For now.

You walked out of the dressing room, chin up. The light of the corridor was behind you, and all that was ahead was the stage. But today the stage is the whole club. Every chair, every glass, every greedy glance. Today you are not just a dancer. Today you are teasing fate.

Your skin after the show was still shining with sweat, your chest was rhythmically rising - you knew how it looked from the outside. And you knew what they wanted. You allowed yourself to walk a little slower past the crowd - your hips moved smoothly, with a laziness that beckons. The air smelled of whiskey, cigars, expensive perfume. And thirst. It hung between these people like smoke. The thirst to own. To buy. To take.

You stopped at the table. A man in a jacket, with sharp cheekbones and a ring on his little finger - a typical bored predator. He was waiting for you to come up.

You did not give him the opportunity to command.You came up yourself. Smiled. And softly, with the grace of a panther, you sat on his lap. Didn't ask. Didn't offer. Just did. And felt his breathing hitch.

-"You again," -he breathed out, hiding his surprise behind insolent smugness.

-"Of course, again," -you answered, placing your hand on his shoulder.- "While you can still afford it."

The music grew quieter. You began to move - not just dance, but tempt. Slowly. Your hips pressed against him, your chest almost touching his chin. You felt his body tense beneath you. He tried to wrap his arms around your waist - you deftly intercepted his hand and smiled:

-"Just watch."

His hand dropped. Money - a wad of fresh pounds - lay on your thigh. Without words. Without conditions.You didn't thank him. You just looked - coldly, condescendingly. He thought he was paying for the body. And you knew he paid for the humiliation.

You got off him - and immediately caught Simon's eye.He was standing at the bar. In the shadows. Alone. Without words.

He saw everything. Every movement. Every smile, every note of your body on someone else's lap. And you felt it as if he was holding you by the throat at that moment.You walked towards him. Slowly. Softly, as if everything around you disappeared.

You came closer. Standing close. Closer than is decent.

"Do you want to say something, Simon?" -you asked quietly, almost touching his ear with your lips.-"Or are you just going to watch me get taken - while you remain silent?"

He didn't answer right away. He just turned his head, and his eyes met yours. Dark. Bottomless.

-"Do you think I'll let someone take what belongs to me?"

You chuckled, feeling your heart squeeze from something primal, dense, warm.

-"Who said that I belong?"

He came closer. His hand lightly wrapped around your neck, not squeezing - just feeling. His breath was hot, his voice low, with a slight hoarseness:

-"You just don't understand yet. But you will."