Because that’s what I was now.
Not a girl. Not a performer.
Just property.
I barely recognized myself in the mirror when they were done.
The costume came next—some dark metallic, barely-there fabric stretched over my hips and breasts. The top dug into my ribs. The bottom rode high and tight. There was a sheer skirt. No shoes. No jewelry. No dignity.
“You’ll be collected in five,” the housekeeper said. “Stand by the door.”
They left without another word, their footsteps echoing down the polished hall until I was alone with my reflection. A stranger stared back at me—painted, hollow-eyed, dressed for someone else’s fantasy.
The door opened precisely five minutes later. One of Delgado’s men crossed the threshold, a block of muscle and menace. He didn’t bother speaking, just clamped a calloused hand around my arm and hauled me into the hallway.
The place was a Spanish villa masquerading as a home, all cream stucco walls and carved wooden arches. The light of gilded sconces glowed against expensive tile floors. But I barely had time to register the details. My handler’s pace was relentless as he dragged me through a long hallway and to a sweeping staircase. We descended quickly, and before I could even get a glimpse of the lower level, we were out the heavy front doors and heading into the night.
The sudden bite of cold made me shudder, prickling my skin. He yanked me down the stone steps, my bare feet scraping over the cold surface.
A waiting SUV loomed at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the floodlights of the front of the house. The man shoved me forward. A strip of fabric was placed over my eyes—no suffocating bag this time, just a blindfold that made my world go black. My stomach knotted nervously as I was pushed into the back seat. The leather was cold against my thighs. The door slammed shut, and the engine growled to life.
The drive blurred into a series of turns and stops, the winding road making my stomach worse with every sway. Without sight, every bump and curve amplified my unease until my nerves clenched like a fist in my gut. The only reason I didn’t throw up was because I hadn’t eaten since the burger place.
Finally, the vehicle slowed. There were men speaking outside. Suddenly the door opened, and a hand fisted around my arm again.
“Out.”
The air smelled like stale beer and cigarette smoke. The blindfold was jerked off. Once my vision cleared, I knew exactly where I was—The Sacrifice.
We didn’t go through the front entrance; instead, I was taken around the back, hauled up the steps, through the door, down the hallway, and then shoved into the back of the main stage.
No dressing room. No chance to see the other girls. Nothing.
My aerial pole was handed to me.
Carlos stood behind the curtain, arms folded, sneering at me.
He slapped my ass, jolting me forward.
“Time to earn your keep, little star,” he said, and then he pushed me out onto the stage.
The spotlight hit me in the chest like a punch.
The club was packed, but this wasn’t the typical crowd. No shouting. No whistles.
All the men in the audience wore high-end suits and watches worth more than my life savings. They sat in leather chairs. There was a velvet rope between the stage and the front tables.
The place smelled like money and smoke, with a not-so-subtle hint of anticipation.
I climbed the pole because I had no choice.
My body was stiff, my muscles cold. I’d been allowed no time for a warm-up. My limbs protested as I pushed through theclimb. I locked my thighs high on the pole and spun slowly as the music began to play.
This had to be good.
Beautiful.
Erotic.
