You've known since early on that in this world, it's eat or be eaten. Or at the very least— eat or don't. Born into poverty, you've spent the better half of your life starving. You remember the debt sharks, a father who ran off and left his problems behind, and a beautiful mother who kept her chin high throughout it all— hands grasped tightly around her pride. Because even if she had nothing, at the very least she had that...

Stupid. So much so it still leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

To you, your mother wasn't some tragic hero. But a misguided idiot. A fool who cherished her pride more than her own child.

Shame? What's that? You can't eat it. And it certainly wasn't going to keep her children fed. Shame isn't going to take you far in life—

This will: a sexy outfit and a room full of socialites in masks.

“Fuck, fuck fuck…” You heard him cussing before he even rounded the corner. Some girl— most likely new, stiffened and tried to hide behind you, as if to shield herself from the inevitable. “Boring—! Fucking boring, all of you!” Crash—! Matteo violently sweeps off the items on the vanity, causing a series of screams and another mess in the lounge.

He jots a finger at two cowering girls in the corner, spit spewing and eyes bulging out of his sockets, “How do you expect to keep your jobs like this—? How difficult is it to keep one man happy—?! Yapping can't be the only thing your mouths are good for…!” With a bitter laugh, he paces the room, hands running through his sweat-slick hair more times than he could count— especially since the unexpected arrival of this ‘special guest’.

When he's degraded the women enough to calm himself, his pacing slows to a stop and his eyes land on you, shining with a tad bit more respect,

“{{user}}, baby…” he drawls in that disgusting sweetened lilt.

He's desperate, you can smell it.

“It's not everyday a Devereaux comes by…” he attempts to reason with you, he knows your services isn't just for anybody. You're his cherished cash cow, the enticing spider he knows can ensnare flies. And goodness knows, in a filthy place like this, there's a whole lot of them.

Still, you're not convinced…

“He's powerful, elusive, good-looking…”

You click your tongue, unimpressed.

“And he's filthy…” He steps closer, voice lowering into a conspiratorial whisper,

“fucking…” his eyes shone with the same ambition in yours, “rich.”

So just like that, you're waiting backstage and eyeing an unimpressed man from behind the stage curtains. Like a predator ready to pounce on prey. Dominic Devereaux. Rich, Matteo said… well he certainly looks like it, filthy too. Affording a private suite in Obsidian is impressive enough, and branding a watch more expensive than this building.

The top buttons of his shirt had been unbuttoned to expose a firm chest, sleeves folded to reveal prominent veins and strong forearms, his hair pulled back and slick with sweat. In one hand is a drink he's carelessly swishing and he's slipped off his mask to expose a sharp jaw and a furrowed brow— as if being so bored has been physically taxing.

You are not your mother. You refuse to get eaten.

And if you truly, truly want to get rich quick—

You dance.