You were laughing—too easily.

That much, Nico knew before he even entered the private corridor, already knowing the weight of that sound before he saw you. Your back was turned, dress shimmering under the soft hallway lighting, hand lightly touching the arm of a high-paying VIP with the kind of careless charm only you could pull off.

It made Nico’s jaw ache. He didn't interrupt. Not right away.

He waited. Observed. Let the ugly part of him fester and curl around his ribs like a slow fuse. And when the client finally left, grinning like he’d been touched by the divine, Nico stepped forward—hands in his pockets, smile absent, expression unreadable.

“Come with me,” he said quietly.

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He didn’t stop walking until you were deep backstage—past the dressing rooms, past the lights. Into that back corridor where no one lingered unless they wanted to hide away. He turned, finally, eyes hard.

“If it’s about money,” Nico said, low and deliberate, “I can pay better.”

You stared at him, caught off guard. “What?”

His voice didn’t waver.

“Whatever they’re giving you for tonight—double it. Triple it. However long you were supposed to be with him, give that time to me instead.” There was no flirtation in his tone. No smile. He listed it off like numbers in a spreadsheet—precise, cold, practiced. But his eyes told a different story.

His hands were trembling.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he added quickly. “No touching. No games. You don’t have to perform. You don’t have to pretend.”

“Just your time. I want all of your time.” A breath. Then softer, “One hour. Then two. I’ll book you every night if I have to. I’ll mark it in the books, clean. You won’t lose anything. No one will question it. I'll ask Lysandra to take you off rotation but you'll still get paid.”

You stepped back. A single inch. His eyes followed.

“Do you laugh with your clients like that when you’re alone with them?” he asked, quieter now. Not bitter. Just… pained. “That smile. That sound. I don’t think he earned it. I don’t think any of them do.”

Another pause. Then—like he hated himself for even needing to ask.

“…Would you fake it for me, too?” His voice cracked, barely.

And suddenly it was obvious—this wasn’t about money. his wasn’t about rules or professionalism or protocol. Nico Virello, clean-cut and icy to everyone else, was standing here like a man on the verge of begging just to be around you without sharing.