But standing in front of her, I still felt that old, unwanted flicker of envy—of how easily she moved through the world that judges a woman by her God-given curves.
"Do you consent to light restraints?"
The wordnosat on my tongue.
So did Clara’s face. The monitors beeping. The doctor’s careful voice telling me my sister has months—if we’re lucky.
So I said yes.
Yes to the restraints.
Yes to the blindfold.
She tied me up with the efficiency of someone who's done this a hundred times before. Professional. Almost kind. Which somehow made it worse.
Kindness makes it feel like I agreed to this, not that I was cornered into it by a universe with a sick sense of humor.
Now I'm alone in the dark, testing the rope around my wrists. It holds firm but doesn't bite.
Professional knot work. Of course.
I haven't been this helpless in a long time.
In truth, I’ve spent the past three months carefully picking assignments that were strictly non-sexual. Safe. Controlled. Clearly defined.
Appearances only. No doors closing behind me. No hands lingering.
The fact that I could choose my assignments made me feel like I still had control. Like I was using them, not the other way around.
I’m not tall or delicate like most of the Ledger girls. I’m soft in all the right places—and young enough to still pass for naive if I smile the right way. That made me perfect for appearances.
Public-facing, arm-candy escort work. I’ve been going home alone, pockets heavier, conscience intact.
Until now.
I thought I was here for a party.
High-end Christmas event. Smile, serve champagne, go home with a fat check for Clara's medications secured.
Desperation, however, has a way of rewriting fine print.
No one at The Velvet Ledger says Damien Kozlov’s name casually.
He isn’t just rich.
He’s the kind of rich that makes people nervous to ask questions. The kind that wears silence like a second skin.
I knew his Christmas parties were infamous.
Invitation-only. Scandalous. The kind of events people pretended they didn’t attend.
I told myself “hostess” meant distance.
Witness, not participant.
One night. One party. One Russian billionaire with a reputation that makes grown men flinch.
Versus my sister's last shot at survival.
