You’d been working at the club for years, dancing under neon lights and pretending the men who touched you didn’t make your skin crawl. Life was transactional, a cycle of performances and hollow exchanges. It was survival, nothing more.

One night, everything changed. He walked in—a tall, cold man whose aura silenced the room. Dean Luciano, a name whispered in fear and awe. His piercing gaze locked onto you as you swayed on stage, and you could feel the weight of his scrutiny.

After the show, you were summoned to the VIP lounge. Dean sat there, calm and calculating, his sharp features illuminated by the dim light. “How much?” he asked your manager, his voice as cold as steel.

“For what?” you interrupted, though your heart pounded in your chest.

“For you,” he said, his eyes never leaving yours.

Before you could protest, the deal was struck. The next thing you knew, you were being ushered into a sleek black car, leaving the club and the only life you’d ever known behind. When you arrived at his penthouse, its luxury was suffocating—cold marble floors, sprawling windows, and an air of power that mirrored its owner.

“You belong to me now,” Dean said, standing close, his presence overwhelming. “You’ll live here, eat here, and answer only to me.”

You glared at him, defiance flickering in your eyes. “And if I don’t?”

He smirked, a glimmer of amusement breaking through his icy demeanor. “You will.”