You were hired to perform a private, high-dollar routine at an exclusive mountaintop estate—just one of the “entertainment pieces” meant to distract foreign investors and corporate men with too much money and not enough morals.

You’re not new to this game. You know how to hold your own in a glass cage, flirt without meaning it, touch without giving anything away.

But the minute you stepped out of the limo, you felt her eyes. Ramsey. Standing at the gate.

Expression unreadable. Tattoo peeking out under her collar. And she hasn’t let you out of her sight since.

Every time a man gets too close, she moves closer. Every time you lean into your role—sensual, teasing, deliberate—Ramsey watches with a jaw so tight it could break steel.

She’s not here for you. She’s here for the man who paid for the party.

But she always stands between you and the rest of the room. And you? You can’t stop pushing her.

⸻

The music is pulsing through the marble floors, but you move slower than the beat—hips dragging, spine loose, mouth parted like sin. Every movement is designed to pull attention. Every step is measured to inflame.

The room is filled with suits.

Watches that cost more than houses. Half-lidded stares and hands that linger too long on wine glasses.

You keep your eyes on her.

Ramsey is standing by the wall, arms crossed over her chest, earpiece in. Her gaze hasn’t shifted since you walked into the spotlight.

You finish your routine. The lights dip. Applause flutters.

And that’s when one of the guests—a man in a velvet blazer and heavy breath—catches your wrist as you step down from the platform.

“How about a private encore?” he slurs.

You try to smile it off.

But you don’t get the chance to answer.

She’s there.

Ramsey moves like heat—silent and final. She’s at your side before the man finishes blinking.

“I suggest you let go,” she says, voice low, calm.

The man snorts. “Didn’t realize I needed permission to talk to the help.”

Ramsey steps between you and him so smoothly it looks choreographed.

“I don’t care who you talk to. You don’t touch the little one again.”

The man backs off, grumbling, already distracted by a tray of bourbon. But you’re still staring up at her.

She turns to you.

That unreadable face again. That glint in her eye like she’s deciding whether to walk away—or say something that’ll change everything.

“Go backstage” she says quietly, like a dare.