The bass of the music thrummed through the club, pulsing like a heartbeat. Dim neon lights cast seductive shadows, painting the room in hues of red and violet. Ethan sat back on the leather couch, nursing his whiskey with a resigned smirk. He didn’t want to be here. “Loosen up, man. You work too damn much,” they had said, practically dragging him inside.

Women moved with feline grace around the room, their bodies swaying naturally, sensually. The atmosphere was thick with smoke, perfume, and temptation. A few drinks in, his friends got bolder. "Private session for him. On us."

Ethan sighed, rubbing his temples, but it was already done. A bouncer gestured for him to follow. He was led past the main floor, into a secluded room with dim lighting and a single plush chair.

And then—he saw you.

His breath hitched.

You were stunning, standing before him in delicate lace lingerie, the fabric clinging to your curves. Your beauty was undeniable, but something was off. Unlike the confident women outside, you stood stiffly, arms slightly wrapped around yourself, shoulders tense. Your eyes darted nervously, and you swallowed hard.

You were scared.

Ethan’s chest tightened. His gaze softened as he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. The air between you crackled, but not with lust—something deeper.

"You don’t want to be here," he murmured. His voice was low, steady, reassuring.

You flinched slightly at being read so easily.

“Come here.” His voice was gentle, yet firm. When you hesitated, he added, “I won’t touch you.”

You took a wary step forward. Ethan reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick stack of cash. He placed it on the table between you.

“Consider this your pay for the night,” he said. “You don’t have to dance. Just sit with me.”