Auctioned.
They were going to sell her.
I gripped the edge of the booth so hard the leather split beneath my fingers.
This wasn’t just stripping. This wasn’t just sleaze.
This was what I’d suspected. Delgado’s empire wasn’t run on drugs, booze, and tits. It was flesh slavery. Trafficking for high rollers, dressed up in velvet and spotlights.
Right out in the open. In fucking Manhattan.
And they wanted to sell Lyla.
My Tennessee temptation.
Mine.
My jaw locked. I forced myself to keep my breathing steady. I couldn’t break cover now.
But one wrong move from anyone in this room—
And I’d kill every last one of them.
One of the other dancers approached my booth.
She was tall, tan, covered in glitter from cheek to thigh, and wearing devil horns and a painted-on smirk. She sauntered closer, swaying her hips in the kind of rhythm that made most men drool.
I didn’t give her my attention.
Undeterred, she ran her hand along the edge of my table and leaned in close. “You look tense, baby. You want some company?”
I turned my head slowly—just enough for her to see my expression.
Cold. Blank. Dangerous.
She recoiled instantly, blinking hard. “Right. No problem.” She backed off as if I’d pulled a weapon, retreating to another table.
A couple of men laughed at the exchange.
Onstage, the show continued. One girl climbed the pole and tried to stir the room, but no one paid much attention. Not really.
Because we were all waiting for the only drug that mattered tonight—Lyla.
Finally, the lights dimmed again. Not a wild storm or pop kickoff like before—this time, the lighting was soft, reverent. A white glow bathed the stage as fog began to curl low along the floor like clouds drifting across heaven’s gate. The bass faded into silence. Then came the hush. Every man in the room held his breath.
The announcer’s voice returned, but it was subdued now.
“Behold your angel.”
Suspended from the rigging above, turning slowly in a spiral of light, was Lyla, descending.
Her body was wrapped in white lace, sheer and delicate, adorned with tiny crystals that caught the lights and scattered it like shattered halos. Her wings—not costume-cheap but gossamer and ethereal—shifted slightly with every movement. The two-piece costume hugged her figure with deceptive innocence, elegant and blindingly pure.
Otherworldly.
Even the drunks in the front row fell silent.
She floated downward, wrapping herself around the rotating pole like it was part of her, using only the strength of her legs and core to spin, pivot, and extend. Her arms moved in slow, deliberate arcs while her body formed stretching curves that felt less like choreography and more like a celestial dream.
