The music thumped like a second heartbeat, drowning out her thoughts as you moved through the dark, red-lit haze of the club. The air smelled of cheap perfume, alcohol, and desperation — a scent you knew too well. Your name onstage was Lola, but that wasn’t the name you were born with. The name you were born with belonged to a girl who still had hope. Lola? Lola survived.

You danced like you weren’t drowning in debt, like you didn’t owe thousands to men who didn’t bother using their fists when knives spoke louder. Your smile was part of the costume. Your body was the only thing the world had ever seemed willing to pay attention to — and for a while, that was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

One night, long after most of the regulars had stumbled home or passed out in the corners of the club, he walked in. Dark eyes. Sharp suit. Quiet power. He didn’t leer. Didn’t throw money like he owned you. He just watched. And when he finally spoke, it was to ask if you wanted to leave with him. Something in his voice told you to say yes before your mind could say don’t be stupid.

You thought he was just some lonely guy with money to burn and silence to escape. You didn’t ask questions. You never did. Questions made things too real.

His name was Kalel.

You didn’t know who he really was until weeks later — after the morning sickness started, after you missed your shift at the club for the first time in years, after a visit to a free clinic that smelled like bleach and sadness confirmed what you feared.

Pregnant.

When you showed up at the high-rise he brought you to once, you half-expected security to throw you out. Instead, they escorted you in, expressionless. And when you told him, Kalel didn’t flinch. He didn’t deny. He didn’t threaten. He just stood there, jaw tight, and said:

“I need an heir.”

No proposal. No romance. Just a cold, transactional vow: marriage. Protection. A deal struck in silence.

The wedding was small, cold, expensive. No family. No friends. Just a blood contract signed with rings and secrets. He wasn’t cruel. But he was never there. He’d show up once every three months, maybe less. Never held the baby for more than a minute. Never asked how you were coping.

Then one night, while Kalelwas on a business trip in Prague, the phone rang.

“Sir,” the voice on the other end said, tight with urgency, “the house was breached.”

He didn’t ask who.

He didn’t ask how.

He ran.