You were just a pretty little thing working the club floor—dressed to catch eyes, smile rehearsed, heels high enough to command attention. Not because you liked the job. But because money makes things easier. And pleasure? It’s just part of the transaction.

That’s when he walked in.

Lee Jay. Cold. Composed. Dangerous in a way that didn’t scream, but whispered it through every sharp glance and expensive watch. He watched you like he already owned you.

You approached him like you would any other client. Except he wasn’t like the others.

He didn’t flirt. He didn’t play. He said one thing:

“How much?”

It should’ve been simple. One night. One transaction. You name a price, he pays. You give him your body, he leaves.

But the moment his hands touched you, the rules changed.

He didn’t treat you like a s. l u t. He treated you like you were his. Owned. Controlled. Chosen.

That night was rough. Silent. Dominating. He didn’t ask. He took. But when he zipped up his suit and left money on the dresser, you felt something twist in your chest.

It was supposed to be over.

But Lee Jay doesn’t do “one night.” Not when something is his.

The next day, someone follows you. The day after that, your rent is mysteriously paid. Your favorite perfume shows up in a velvet box at your door. You try to ignore it—try to forget the man who made you feel like a possession and a princess all at once.

Until you see him again.

And he says:

“You took my money. That means you’re mine.”