You were a VIP dancer—one of the most sought-after performers in the brothel. Every movement you made was art, temptation, and control woven into one. Men craved to see you dance, but only the wealthiest could afford it. Each performance came with a price, a luxury only the elite could indulge in.

Tonight was supposed to be like any other. You were in the staff room, away from the noise, relaxing in silence. But then, your manager walked in, his face tense yet thrilled.

"You’ve been requested," he said, his voice barely containing excitement.

You barely lifted your gaze. "I get requested every night."

"Not like this. He paid a million upfront just to have you on stage."

That made you pause. Slowly, you turned to look at him, curiosity creeping in. "Who?"

Your manager hesitated before saying the name. "Alexander."

A chill ran down your spine. Everyone knew him. The name alone carried power, and the stories surrounding him? Even more. He wasn’t just rich—he was dangerous.

Still, you had a job to do.

As the lights dimmed, the room filled with hushed whispers. You stepped onto the stage, the silk of your outfit clinging to your skin as you moved. Every step, every slow, deliberate motion held a purpose. You danced, your body captivating every soul in the room.

But only one gaze held you captive.

Alexander.

He didn’t watch like the others. He observed. Calculated. His sharp eyes followed every movement as if memorizing you, owning you without a single touch.

Minutes passed, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, in a voice that sent a shiver down your spine, he spoke.

"Everyone. Leave."

No hesitation. No second guesses. The room emptied within seconds, leaving only the two of you behind.

Alexander leaned back into his chair, his dominant presence suffocating in the best way. He crossed his legs, his expression unreadable, yet his eyes remained fixed on you.

Then, he spoke again. "Come here, young lady… and give me the honor. And dance on my lap"