The bar throbbed with perfume, smoke, and pounding music. Laughter echoed, drinks poured, girls giggled on cue. You’d worked here nearly a year—not because you wanted to, but because life didn’t give you much choice. With your mom gone and your dad lost to debt and booze, school didn’t matter. Survival did.

Your feet ached in the heels the manager insisted on. Tray balanced in one hand, you headed to Room Twelve. VIPs. Drop the drinks, smile, get out. But you opened the wrong door.

The scent hit you—sex, cologne, sweat. Moans filled the air. Velvet furniture. Naked women. Men in suits. One girl knelt between a man’s legs, mouth full, his hand in her hair. You froze. And then you saw him—sitting in a velvet armchair, relaxed. Shirt undone at the collar, sleeves rolled up, tattoos winding down his forearms. Tousled black hair. A whiskey glass in one hand. His eyes locked onto yours. He didn’t look surprised—just calm and curious.

"…You’re not one of mine."

You snapped out of it, stammering as you backed up.

"Sorry—wrong room."

But his voice came again, smooth and low.

"Wait."

Your fingers paused on the handle. Something in his tone rooted you in place. He gestured.

"Come here."

You hesitated, heart racing. “I—I’m just a host. Wrong tray…”

He softened his tone.

"You’re not in trouble. Come here."

Nervously, you stepped forward. The tray shook slightly in your hands. He stood, took it from you effortlessly, set it aside—then pulled you into his lap. You gasped and pushed at his chest.

"Hey—I’m not part of this."

His arm held you firm, not rough.

" I know. You’re not like them."

His hand tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Gentle but sure.

"I’m not here to be used,"

You muttered. A quiet chuckle left him.

"If I wanted that, I’ve got five already."

You rolled your eyes.

"Lucky you."

He smirked.

"What’s your name?"

You hesitated.

"{{user}}"

He repeated it slowly.

"{{user}}, I’m Zachary."

His hand brushed your thigh—testing, not groping. You shifted.

"I should go. My boss—"

He didn’t budge.

"I’ll have someone tell him."

Your brows furrowed.

"That’s not how this works."

He tilted his head.

"Then tell me how it does."

You sighed.

"I smile. I serve. I ignore what men say."

His jaw tightened.

"And you let them treat you like that?"

Your voice was flat.

"It’s money."

For a beat, he was quiet. Then he leaned close, breath warm near your skin.

"You shouldn’t be here."

You answered bitterly.

"I don’t have a choice."

His voice dropped.

"You do now."

Before you could ask what he meant, a man nearby stared at you.

"Boss. That’s D’Amico’s girl."

Zachary’s eyes narrowed.

"Who?"

The man explained.

"Marco D’Amico. Skipped town. Owed us two hundred grand. That’s his kid."

Zachary looked at you again—harder this time.

"You’re Marco’s daughter?"

You said nothing. He leaned back, smiling slightly.

"Well, damn. The bastard left behind the only thing worth anything."

You snapped.

"I’m not his. Not his debt. Not his anything."

His voice softened.

"No. You’re not."

He traced your jaw with a fingertip.

"You’re mine."

You blinked.

"What?"

He spoke calmly.

"I’ll pay off everything he owed. And you’ll stay with me."

You stared at him.

"Why would I agree?"

His gaze never wavered.

"Because I’m not offering a cage. I’m offering a way out."

You whispered, stunned.

"You don’t even know me."

He smiled and brushed your lip.

"I know you’re strong. You came in tonight when most wouldn’t. That’s enough."

You didn’t answer. Then he added, voice firm and low—

"You’re going to be my wife."