Aurora's Pov
"I thought you weren't going to give me my money," he muttered, counting the bills in his hands.
"Why would I do that?" I asked flatly.
"You're right. You're smarter than that." He chuckled darkly, then snapped, "Now get the fuck in there and change."
I didn't argue. I stepped into the room we usually got dolled up in—our stage, our prison.
I worked at a strip club at night. Shameful.
We didn't always have sex with the men. Sometimes, it was just dancing, teasing, letting them devour us with their eyes. But the rich ones—the top clients—were different. If Harrison sent for us, it meant one thing: our bodies were no longer our own.
Harrison always had a way of twisting things. He said we hadn't lost all our dignity, because at least men paid huge sums to "play" with us. That logic made me want to put a bullet between his eyes. But worse than selling us, he made us thieves. Before a session, he slipped us something to give the men—something that blurred their memories come morning.
He was the devil himself.
"Hey, bitch, how are you doing?"
Maya slid onto the chair next to me as I leaned into the mirror, blending my makeup. She was already dressed, hair perfect, lips glossy.
"Hey," I answered.
"How'd it go last night?"
"The usual."
"Right." She sighed. "Anyway, Harrison told me to tell you—you're on stage tonight."
"What? There's no rich guy coming today," I said sarcastically.
She laughed. "Isn't dancing better than choking on some wrinkled dick?"
"Yeah, you're right."
"Girl…" she shook her head, laughing as she stood. I didn't laugh. Almost did.
"Come on. I'll be outside." she said her bare ass bounced as she walked away.
I pole-danced for about an hour, Harrison nodding in approval from the shadows. We always wore masks—the kind people wore at masquerade balls. It was the only thing that kept me sane. The masks changed every night, so no man could ever point at me in daylight and call me that stripper.
Most nights, the faces in the crowd blurred together. But tonight, someone new was watching me.
His gaze burned. Not with lust, but with something sharper—like he could see through the mask, straight into me.
I faltered.
Climbing down from the stage, I muttered, "I need a drink."
"Get your ass back up there!" Harrison barked.
"Chill, I'll be back."
His eyes narrowed. "You better be."
Someone give me a gun already.
At the bar, I could still feel that stranger's eyes on me. My stomach twisted. I slipped into the changing room, needing to breathe.
I didn't know him. But… did he know me?
"I was just about leaving sir"
"Shut the fuck up," Harrison snapped, stepping inside before I could leave. "You're going with someone tonight."
"Someone? You told me to run the stage—"
"And now I'm telling you different," he cut me off. "He'll be waiting out back. You know what to do. Pack your things. Leave."
His eyes stayed on me until I nodded.
I swallowed hard. At least that creep in the audience wouldn't follow me now.
Outside, a sleek black Rolls-Royce Wraith was parked, engine purring. A man leaned against it, cigarette glowing between his fingers.
Of course. Only the richest drove beasts like that.
I slid into the car without a word. When he turned, my breath caught.
It was him. The stranger from the club.
We didn't wear masks in the car—We didn't need it, not that they'll even remember our faces the next morning. But I wished I still had mine now.
His stare pinned me down for nearly a minute before he hissed, tossed the cigarette, and started the engine. His hands gripped the wheel so tight, his knuckles turned white.
The drive was silent. Too silent.
I was scared as shit—I wasn't sure if I was supposed to go in.
"Do I have to tell you to get out of the fucking car?" His voice cut like a knife.
I obeyed instantly.
By the time we reached his house—an empty shell with nothing but walls, a bed, and a TV. No furniture. Just emptiness.
The house was colder inside than out. It made my skin crawl.
"Take off your clothes," he ordered.
My body moved before my mind caught up. My fingers trembled, but I stripped down piece by piece.
When I finally looked at him, he was already removing his shirt, watching me with a hunger that wasn't lust. It was rage.
"Are you in a hurry?" I tried, desperate to get him to take the drug Harrison had given me.
He tilted his head like I'd lost my mind.
He gave a mocking laugh
Then his hand clamped around my throat.
"Don't they teach you not to speak unless spoken to?" His voice was low, venomous. He leaned close, breath icy against my skin. "You're a slut. Act like one."
Goosebumps erupted along my arms. My lungs burned as I fought for air. His grip, his presence—everything about him was brutal, relentless.
He hadn't said a word since he pushed me against the floor, and now the silence was the loudest thing in the room—a thick, angry silence that sealed us off from the rest of the world. He moved with a deliberate, punishing pace. There was no breath of passion in it, only the sharp, shallow intake of air that spoke of a chore being completed.
He took turns with every part of my body.
You're such a beautiful whore he said in between thrusts.
He didn't touch me with desire. He touched me with violence.
By the time it ended, I couldn't feel my legs. My body ached, my soul even more. We didn't even make it to the bed.
"Get out. I'm done with you," he muttered, dropping onto the mattress, reaching for his phone like I was nothing.
A wad of cash hit the floor at my feet.
"That's what your boss asked for. Take it. Leave."
Shaking, I dragged my dress over my bruised skin, heels clutched in my hands. Somehow, I stood. Somehow, I walked out.
But inside, something had cracked.
But there was nothing I hated more than knowing he knew my face… and he could be coming back for me.