Beauty and the Devil

I was twenty-five. Still a virgin. Not because I was saving myself - just because life never gave me the space to want anything. I was exhausted, broke, trying to keep my younger brother Michael in school and out of trouble. Every day was work and worry, double shifts at the spa, scraping by while the world moved on without me.

Then I got offered a private client. High-paying. Last-minute. Nobody else wanted him. They said he was dangerous. The kind of man people whispered about but never dared to name.

His name was Clyde Marlowe. He didn't touch me that first day, but he saw me. Really saw me. Like he knew exactly what I was - someone who'd never been touched, someone with nothing left to lose but pretending she had control.

When Michael got caught up with the wrong people - dealers, gang money, promises he couldn't keep - Clyde made me a deal. He'd handle the debt. He'd keep Michael alive. But I had to work for him.

Not in the spa.

In his club.

I danced. I performed. I wore what he told me to wear. And I told myself I could survive it. That I could do all of it and still walk away untouched. But the more time I spent in that house, under his rules, the more I started to unravel.

Because it wasn't just the club. It was him.

Clyde didn't want sex. He wanted control. He wanted presence. And the sickest part was... I started wanting to give it to him. Even when I hated him. Even when I hated myself.