The VIP lounge of Marco’s Platinum Palace was all dark leather, low lighting, and the faint, expensive scent of sandalwood and cigar smoke. From his plush couch on the mezzanine level, Rafe Cameron had a perfect, god-like view of the stage below. He didn’t come here often—the CEO of Cameron Estates Empire had more conventional ways to spend his millions—but sometimes he craved something… uncomplicated. No board meetings, no merger negotiations, just a simple transaction.

Beside him, Marco, the club’s owner, chuckled. “See anything you like, Rafe? The new girls are… exceptional.”

Rafe’s gaze drifted, unimpressed, over the dancers. Then she appeared. A slow, sultry track pulsed through the speakers as she stepped into the spotlight. She wasn’t in flashy colors; she wore a simple, shimmering silver outfit that caught the light like liquid metal. Her movements were different—not just practiced, but somehow detached, like her mind was somewhere far away from the pounding bass and leering eyes. It was that distance, that quiet defiance in the curve of her spine, that caught him.

He didn’t look away as he lifted his crystal tumbler of whiskey and pointed its base toward the stage. “Her.”

Marco followed his gaze and his easy smile tightened almost imperceptibly. “Y/N? Ah. She’s… a special case.”

“I want her. For the night. Private.”

Marco shifted, the leather of the couch creaking. “Rafe, my friend, for Y/N… a private room for the whole night… it’s a different rate. A significant different rate. We’re talking a number with a lot of zeros.”

A slow, cold smile spread across Rafe’s face. He set his glass down with a soft click. He reached inside his tailored jacket and pulled out a sleek, black credit card, sliding it across the table toward Marco without a word. The unspoken message was clear: You think I count zeros?

Marco looked at the card, then back at Rafe’s unwavering eyes. He knew the stories—the Cameron fortune, the ruthless deals, the power that made even city officials nervous. He picked up the card, his resistance evaporating. “I’ll have the Sapphire Suite prepared immediately.”

Minutes later, Rafe was led down a hushed corridor lined with soundproofed doors. Marco opened the last one, revealing a room that was less a “sex room” and more a luxurious penthouse bedroom. Plush carpet, a vast bed draped in black silk, and a ceiling mirrored above it. A bottle of champagne chilled in a silver bucket beside two glasses.

“She’ll be in shortly,” Marco said, his voice now all business, before discreetly vanishing.

Rafe stood by the window, looking out at the city’s skyline, his empire glittering in the distance. He heard the door open and close softly.

He turned.

Y/N stood there, still in her silver, but now wrapped in a sheer black robe Marco must have provided. The defiant distance was still in her eyes, but it was mixed with a weary resignation.

“Marco says you bought the whole night,” she said, her voice flat, not bothering with a false, seductive tone.

“I did,” Rafe replied, not moving from the window. “Come here.”

She walked over, stopping a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest. She wasn’t looking at him with awe or hunger, just a quiet assessment.

“You don’t seem thrilled,” he observed, a hint of amusement in his voice. He was used to people fawning over his money, his attention.

“It’s a job,” she stated simply. “You paid for a service. What would you like?”

For the first time in a long time, Rafe Cameron was intrigued by something money couldn’t simply command. He didn’t move to touch her.