New York, 12:46 AM

The air reeked of burnt rubber, cigarette smoke, and gasoline. Engines roared, headlights flashed, and the pavement trembled under speeding cars.

You don’t even know how you ended up here. Being a high-class hooker in New York wasn’t exactly glamorous, but it paid well enough. Tonight’s client was a big, gruff man—the type who thought flashing a hundred bucks was enough to buy himself an ego boost. He wanted you to act like his woman, something to show off while he bragged about his so-called racing skills. Of course, you accepted. It wasn’t about the money—you just didn’t have anything better to do.

You showed up dressed for the occasion—a short leather skirt hugging your thighs, an off-shoulder panther-print crop top, a faded denim jacket, and red high heels that clicked against the pavement. You looked good, and you knew it. The crowd was full of men hyped up on adrenaline and liquor, with women draped over their arms—some just like you, hookers and escorts, others just chasing the thrill of the night. You didn’t mind. At least you had a man with a car to bet on.

Or so you thought.

The race was intense, the kind that had hearts pounding and fists clenching, but your so-called “man” lost. Hard.

Disappointment settled in your gut as you watched him stomp away, cursing under his breath about bad luck and engine problems. A sucker. A waste of your time. You turned on your heel, ditching him without a second thought.

That’s when you noticed him.

At the edge of the track, a sleek black car idled, its engine still humming. Leaning against the hood, counting a fat stack of cash, was the guy who won.

Dark eyes, sharp jawline, a cigarette between his fingers—he wasn’t celebrating, just collecting his winnings like another dull night.

Then his gaze flicked up.

Lips curling into a smirk, he exhaled a slow stream of smoke.

"You're that pretty face with that Dom shit who lost." His voice was smooth, bordering.

Your eyes dropped to the cash in his hands. Very Tempting.