~Rebecca~
The cab ride felt like it lasted both three seconds and three hours.
I sat in the back seat, my coat pulled tight around me even though the heater was blasting, watching the city blur past in streaks of neon and shadow. My knee bounced uncontrollably. My hands were clammy. And my brain was screaming at me in approximately seventeen different languages.
What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?
The driver, a middle-aged man with a Yankees cap and the radio turned to some talk show, glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "You okay back there, miss?"
"Fine," I squeaked. "Totally fine. Just, you know. Going to a...thing."
"Uh-huh." He didn't sound convinced.
Neither was I.
I pulled out my phone and checked the address again. It was in the Upper East Side. The Upper East Side. The kind of neighborhood where people had doormen and ate caviar for breakfast and probably named their dogs after French wines.
Not exactly the setting I had imagined for a sketchy stripper audition.
Maybe that was a good sign? Or a really bad sign. I couldn't tell anymore.
The cab slowed to a stop in front of a building that made my jaw drop.
It wasn't a club. It wasn't a warehouse. It wasn't even a modern high-rise.
It was a mansion.
An honest-to-God, old-money, historical-landmark-looking mansion with ivy crawling up the stone walls and tall, arched windows glowing softly from within. It looked like something out of a period drama. Like Mr. Darcy should be standing on the steps, broodily waiting for Elizabeth Bennet.
"This is it?" I asked weakly.
The driver checked his GPS. "Says so. You sure you got the right address?"
No. Absolutely not. But I was already here, so—
"Yeah," I lied. "Thanks."
I paid him, stepped out into the cold night air, and immediately regretted every life choice that had led me to this moment. The wind bit at my legs through the fishnets. I tugged my coat tighter, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that I was dressed like a low-budget superhero under this thing.
What am I doing?
I stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the mansion like it might suddenly sprout teeth and swallow me whole.
Then, because I'm nothing if not committed to bad decisions, I lifted my arm and smelled myself.
Okay. Deodorant's holding. Perfume's still there. I'm fine. I think I'm fine.
I wasn't fine.
But I climbed the steps anyway.
The front door was massive. Dark wood, ornate carvings, a brass knocker shaped like a lion's head. Very "welcome to your murder" vibes.
I raised my hand and knocked.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the door swung open.
And standing there, looking like he had stepped straight out of Downton Abbey, was an older man in a perfectly tailored suit. White hair, neatly combed. Posture so dignified it made me want to apologize for existing.
A butler.
An actual butler.
"Yes?" he said, his voice smooth and formal.
I blinked. "I—uh—I'm here for—"
"Ah." His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or pity. "Welcome. The master has been expecting you."
The master???
My brain short-circuited. "I'm sorry, the what?"
But he had already stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter. "Please, come in."
I hesitated. This was it. This was the moment where I could turn around, run back to the street, flag down another cab, and pretend this entire night never happened. But then I thought about my bank account. My mom's medical bills. My brothers' tuition. Cassian Martinez's stupid smug face.
Fuck this.
I stepped inside.
The interior was even more stunning than the outside. High ceilings. Marble floors. A grand staircase that curved upward. And Paintings, actual paintings, not prints, hung on the walls in heavy gilt frames. Chandeliers sparkled overhead.
"This way, miss," the butler said, already walking.
I followed, my boots clicking against the marble, my heart hammering in my chest. He led me through a hallway lined with more paintings, past a sitting room that looked like a museum exhibit, and finally stopped in front of a heavy wooden door.
"In here, miss," he said, stepping aside.
I stared at the door, realizing that my hands were shaking.
"Um," I said. "What exactly am I—"
"The master will explain everything." His expression was polite but unreadable. "Good luck."
And then he just….left.
I stood there alone, staring at the door, my pulse racing.
Okay. Okay. You've come this far. Just knock.
I raised my fist and knocked.
"Come in."
The voice was deep, sending a shiver down my spine. I swallowed hard, grabbed the handle, and pushed the door open.
~
The room was…..wow.
Shrouded in a faint mist that seemed to cling to the air like silk, the entire space felt like stepping into a dream. Or a fantasy. Or maybe a really expensive cologne ad.
A massive four-poster bed dominated the center of the room, draped in dark velvet and scattered with rose petals. Candles flickered on every surface, side tables, shelves, the mantle of a grand fireplace. The lighting was dim, golden, intimate.
It felt both romantic and erotic. Like someone had taken a Regency novel and dipped it in sin.
I stepped inside, my breath catching.
"You."