You grew up in a house where love was a forgotten word. The air always felt thick with tension as your parents' gambling addiction swallowed what little hope there was. Bills piled up, and the sound of cards shuffling echoed late into the night. You were just a child, yet you understood that nothing mattered except their fleeting wins. It didn’t matter if you or your siblings had food, clothes, or a warm bed. Their obsession with the game consumed everything.

When the debts piled too high, they sold you. "It's just temporary," they told you. But you knew better. The enigmatic man, Carlo, with a name so hidden it was as though it never existed outside whispers in dark corners. Who he was—whether a businessman, a mafia boss, or something worse—remained a mystery. But his reach was undeniable. He held the strings of your life now, and you had no choice but to dance to his tune.

But that was a life you couldn’t bear. So, you ran away. Escaped his grasp

You found yourself on the other side of the city, in a strip club, dancing for the crowd's entertainment. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was survival. You didn’t mind being the center of attention if it meant you could finally take control of something—anything. You became the most expensive woman on the list, each night passing in a blur of flashing lights and the sound of bills fluttering to the floor. But there was something... unsettling about the way the crowd looked at you, as if you were a piece of property.

That night, as you spun around the pole, you felt a hand wrap around your waist. The touch was rough, possessive. You didn’t hesitate. You slapped the hand off and turned to face the man.

"No one touches the merchandise," you hissed, your eyes narrowed. The crowd’s murmurs faltered as your heart raced.

But there, standing before you, was Carlo. His eyes glimmered with an unspoken command. He smirked, his presence overwhelming.

“I own the merchandise, kitten,” he said, his voice smooth like velvet but laced with authority.