Chapter Fourteen
Mindy
This must be it.
The address Kevin had texted me turns out to be a discreet entrance to a private club. It's located on the top floor of one of the city's tallest, most luxurious buildings. As I step out of the sleek elevator, I feel my heels sink into the plush crimson carpet. As I walk along the long corridor and look around, I can tell that the place oozes wealth and elegance.
I quickly pull out my phone to double-check the name of the lounge I'm supposed to meet Kevin at. It's called Diamond Terrace. After wandering around for what feels like an eternity, I finally spot the sign. As I step inside, I immediately see Kevin waiting for me with a smile on his face.
"Well, hello there, gorgeous," he says, giving me a once-over. "You look absolutely stunning, as always." He motions for me to come closer and leads the way. "Right on time too, just as I expected. I knew I could count on you."
He leads me down a dimly lit hallway lined with ornate doors until we reach the VIP section, then ushers me into a decadent lounge area where the lighting is soft, the furniture buttery leather, with calming ambient jazz playing through the speakers. Everything from the crystal ashtrays to the muted gold accents reeks of extravagant wealth.
Kevin leans in close and whispers, "This is a highly exclusive event, Mindy. Only for top club members and their guests."
I'm in awe. A little overwhelmed as well. This is a long shot from the venue I used to perform in. "This is incredible, Kev." I continue to gaze around the room. "I have a few songs that always seemed to be a hit. Hopefully, they will suffice."
"Just do what you do best, Mindy. Like you did before." Kevin flashes me a smile. "Just sing with your beautiful voice. Make this night one they’ll remember." He pauses and looks at me intently. "If they are entertained as expected, you will receive generous tips on top of the agreed amount." He places extra emphasis on the word 'entertained.' “And don’t worry,” he adds. “I’ll keep an eye on you.”
I swallow hard, giving a barely perceptible nod.
"This is where you will perform, honey," Kevin leads me to the stage that has a deep violet velvet curtain separating it from the rest of the venue. "I will take care of the music." He gestures for me to take my place by the mic stand. Pushing aside my anxiety, I drink in the opulent setting and remind myself - this is why I'm here. Give the audience an unforgettable performance, and that astronomical paycheck is mine. Mom's latest hospital bill is sorted.
As for Maron Korolev, he can go straight to hell. I'm done with his ego, arrogant attitude, the impossible workload, and his irritating habit of standing in my doorway, barking orders in person instead of emailing me. Good luck finding someone who can tolerate his attitude and do what I do.
Suddenly, an unwanted -and somewhat inconvenient- thought sneaks its way into my mind - I may never see Maron Korolev again. I no longer work for Global Media, after all. The image of him standing at my office door, one leg crossed over the other, his signature scent of cedar filling the room, and my arousal going through the roof all flash through my mind.
Stop it, Mindy.
This is not the time.
Kevin inches his face closer to mine, his voice dropping to a hushed tone. "Mindy, just a reminder. There will be some very powerful guys in the audience tonight. Play your cards right, and you might be set for life."
My brow suddenly shoots up a few inches. This is not the first time he refers to this, and I’m starting to have a really uncomfortable feeling creeping up my spine. Surely, he’s not expecting me to become someone’s personal call-girl, is he?
"What do you mean by that, Kevin?” I echo my concern. “How can one gig set me up for life?"
He smirks knowingly. "Just trust me on this, honey. Impress them once, and they'll keep coming back for more."
He pulls out a thick envelope and presses it into my hands. "This is twenty grand cash, upfront. You’ll get the other thirty at the end of the show, as long as you do everything right. Got it?" He raises an eyebrow meaningfully.
Holy shit.
What did you get yourself into, Mindy?
A knot begins to form in my stomach as I eye the money. All of a sudden, everything about this feels wrong. The envelope in my hand looks too thick . As for Kevin’s odd comments… I don’t quite know where to place them.
"What exactly are you saying, Kevin?" I ask. "Is there anything else I need to do besides singing?"
He holds up placating hands. "Nothing too crazy, Mindy. I promise. Just... maybe work a little extra charm if someone catches your eye. If you catch my drift."
What the hell?
My frown deepens. I should have thought about this. Who would pay fifty grand just to listen to me sing? Maybe my initial instinct was right. Maybe I was so focused on sorting out Mom’s treatment, that I missed the whole point and refused to listen to my gut.
Kevin looks at the time on his phone. "Let's get on with it, girl. We're on a schedule!" He smiles at me. "I’m so happy to have you with me tonight, Mindy. Remember, just work your magic and we’ll both be fine." He winks, and gestures towards the small stage before disappearing, leaving me gripping the cash with sweaty palms. I shove the money into my handbag.
Don’t panic, Mindy.
Like he said, you don’t need to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.
My feelings have never been more conflicted. A part of me is bouncing happy by the astronomical paycheck, another part feels deeply uneasy. But there’s no time to dwell on that. The slow rhythm of the music begins to pulsate through the speakers, signaling that it's showtime, whether I'm ready or not. Squaring my shoulders, I plaster on my most dazzling smile and stride towards the microphone. I came here for one reason, and one reason only. Sing, get the money, leave. Full stop. End of story.
I give myself a final once-over in the side mirror. Dress looks good, mildly alluring with its golden glitters and knee-length hemline. Make-up is on point and hair is perfectly coiled into curls. My mental state may not be ideal, still reeling from the unresolved conflict with my sister, but I force that aside for now.With the money securely tucked away in my bag, my mood is lifted, and I'm about to confidently take the stage.
As if on cue, the curtain slides aside, and the bright lights temporarily blind me. Putting on my most genuine smile, I take hold of the microphone.
"Good evening, gentlemen," I greet with a soft and alluring tone.
As my eyes adjust to the brightness, I survey the room. Approximately twenty well-dressed men sit around the room, holding champagne glasses in their hands. Yep, all men. When they see me, there is a buzz of hushed conversations before they break into applause.
With a smile still on my face, I approach the mic but then suddenly freeze. The song gets caught in my throat.
A familiar scent hits my nostrils. Cedar. Sandalwood. Sin. I know that scent. Nobody else has that unique scent.
No.
There’s no freaking way.
But there is. Because sitting in the front row, directly in front of me, is the person I never thought I’d see again. He is also the last person I want to see right now.
Maron
Freaking
Korolev.
In the flesh. My former boss, my top-secret crush, the man I sent my amateur porn content to, just a few days ago. He's here, and he’s looking at me with a self-righteous expression on his face, and a barely visible smile playing at the corner of his lips.
Fuck.
Shit.
Fuck!
What the hell is he doing here?
What do I do now?
He’s not even surprised to see me. Or if he is, he’s doing a great job at hiding it. His cold, piercing eyes are fixated on me intently. They're deeper, darker than ever, and as always, they seem to see straight through me, into the darkest depths of my soul. And as usual, the intensity of his gaze instantly makes me wet. Two seconds of eye contact and my panties are soaked. Very soaked. So much so that I’m worried some of it is already streaming down my inner thighs. Which is absolutely, utterly outrageous and ridiculous.
Seriously, Mindy?
What on earth is wrong with you?
I silently curse myself and this whole situation. I know I should look away, focus on my performance, and ignore the magnetic pull that draws me to this man. But I can't. I'm helpless against the raw, primal energy that seems to emanate from every pore of his being.
He saw the damn photos. Of course, he did. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me. He saw everything. My tits, my ass, my pussy, the whole goddamn package. He saw the video too, as I was screaming from my own orgasm, bucking my hips against my fingers. And rightfully so, he fired me for it. Because Maron Korolev is a merciless guy - one small mistake was all it took for him to kick me out of the company without a second thought. Okay, maybe ‘small mistake’ is a bit of an understatement.
My screwed-up mind immediately churns out the imaginary dialogue I’m going to have with him after the event.
" Mr. Korolev, I’m sorry about the pictures. They were meant for my boyfriend."
"What pictures, Miss Williams? Oh, you’re talking about your amateur porn content?"
Or
"Why weren't you at work today, Miss Williams?"
"Because my contract was terminated, Mr. Korolev."
"Terminated? That must be some misunderstanding, Miss Williams. I would never do such a thing, even if you had sent me nudes and a video of yourself masturbating."
But there's no conversation to be had, at least not right now. Maron Korolev continues to eye me with the same expression that turns my vajayjay into a dripping wet sponge, and my body into one giant mass of wanton desire. He remains seated, his broad, muscular figure still and unreactive. Even his eyelashes don't flutter. I start to wonder if he's even breathing. All he does is watch me, his cold gaze fixed on my struggle with a growing hunger forming under my panties.
Swallowing hard, I plaster my brilliant stage smile back on through sheer force of will. But inside, I'm reeling, barely keeping my rising panic and arousal at bay.
"What a privilege to perform for such... distinguished guests this evening," I say carefully, letting my gaze slowly roam over each undoubtedly dangerous face in the crowd.
Maron's lips curve into a cruel smile, sending a series of shivers down my spine.
"The privilege is ours,” he injects.
Asshole.
He knows what he’s doing.
My fake smile feels tighter than ever as I give a slight nod. As the starting notes of my first song fill the room, I take a steadying breath .
Just get on with it, Mindy.
Survive this night, get paid, and hit the road, Jack .
That's all that matters right now. Finish the gig, get paid, go home. Nothing else. Maron Korolev can go screw himself.
Pushing aside my fear for the umpteenth time, I open my mouth and begin, allowing the sultry lyrics to flow. I take center stage as I gradually ease into my first number. The men sitting around the plush lounge areas seem a little taken aback at first. Their attention is on me as they sip their drinks, eyes roaming over me appraisingly.
That’s it, Mindy, keep going.
As I sing, I find my gaze constantly drifting back to Maron, like he's the only person in the room. At least the only person I know. Each time our eyes meet, I feel a jolt of electricity course through me. A spark of something primal and forbidden that I know I should resist. Maron Korolev is a mystery, an enigma that I find myself desperate to unravel, even as my instincts are screaming at me to run as far away from him as possible.
As I transition to the second and then the third song, allowing the music to flow through me, a voice suddenly rings out. "Hey doll, why don't you lose some of those clothes?" One of the men leers, emboldened by alcohol or just his own arrogance.
I freeze briefly but quickly recover my poise. He’s probably joking. Not that it’s funny, but hey, who am I to judge? Shortly after I recover my stance and continue with the performance, more crude shouts and whistles follow from others in the crowd.
"Yeah, put on a real show for us!"
"Come on gorgeous, don't be a tease!"
"Start losing those clothes, what do you think we’re paying for?
It hits me like a ton of bricks – these are anything but jokes. Kevin's previous warning about these men “not worth messing with" suddenly has a much more sinister implication. I'm not just here as a form of entertainment - I am the entertainment.
How could I be so naive?
Tightening my grip on the microphone, I hold my breath, trying to steady myself as the realization sinks in. Shit. This isn't your average exclusive party... it's a congregation of some of the most powerful men in New York. And they are used to having their way. They are not afraid to use and abuse their power whenever they want on whomever they want . And right now, they have all their attention on me.
Calm it, Mindy.
Maybe you’re overreacting.
You have no idea who these men are.
I force a bright smile, hoping to deflect and appease them. "Oh gentlemen, let's not get carried away," I say with my brightest smile. "I'm only here to provide some lovely music for your evening."
But the crude shouts only grow more insistent, more menacing.
“Come on, baby! Show us that you’re more than just a pretty face with a nice voice!”
"If you want your money, do as we say."
“Lose the fucking dress!”
Barely containing my rising panic, my eyes land on Maron Korolev, once more. His cold eyes bore into me. His head tilts slightly like he’s waiting to see how I’m going to handle the situation. He doesn’t say a single thing, he just continues to stare at me in a way that gives me shivers and chills at the same time.
I can’t believe this is happening. By now, it’s obvious to me that these sick assholes don't care about my boundaries or consent. To them, I'm simply the entertainment they're paying for, by any means necessary.
I turn to face Kevin, silently pleading for help. "Do it," he mouths.
Oh my God.
He’s in on this too?
I should have known it was a setup all along.
How could I have been this na?ve?
Who the hell pays this much for singing alone?
It’s clear there’s no way out of this. I don’t even want to think about what could happen if I object, so I do the unthinkable. With shaking hands, I slowly start to undo the buttons of my blouse, one by one. My hands roam lower and lower, and once the last button is undone, I let the garment slowly slide off my shoulders and drop to the floor.
The men continue shouting words of encouragement, making my humiliation even worse. My cheeks burn, my legs are shaking, but I have no choice; I keep undressing myself under the intense scrutiny of dozens of powerful men who will not take no for an answer.
One by one, the rest of my clothes join the growing pile on the stage, until I have nothing left except my bra and my panties. I force myself to keep singing in the meantime, to keep performing through the shame and vulnerability. Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back fiercely. I can't show weakness, not here.
As I stand vulnerable in front of eager stares, a sickening applause ripples through the crowd. The only person who doesn’t clap, of course, is Maron Korolev. He just continues to survey me, his eyes scanning my body possessively.
"Maybe you can follow instructions after all," he injects with a smirk, keeping his voice low.
Jesus Christ, what a royal asshole. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one in the room who understands his meaning. It is clear that he’s referring to our last meeting at Global Media where my exhaustion led to a bunch of unintended mistakes. Yet, even here, he refuses to show any sympathy. Here I am, doing everything I can to survive and pay my mother’s hospital bills, despite all the odds being stacked against me. If he didn’t fire me, I wouldn’t be standing here on the stage of this questionable venue, trying my best to entertain a bunch of questionable men.
What a dick.
All I want is to disappear, to run away and hide from this degrading moment. But even more than that, I want to scream into the microphone, "You're the reason I'm here, forced to strip in front of these men! You fired me!"
Keep it cool, Mindy.
Think about the money.
You didn’t make it this far to screw up now.
I bite back my words and continue to stand there, waiting for the applause to die down. Trapped, forced to endure obscene leers and jeers as I struggle to maintain my voice and what little dignity I have left. I've never felt so ashamed. Scratch that. I did, when I accidentally sent amateur porn to my boss, starring: yours truly.
But the evening is not over yet. More music comes through the speakers, meaning I have more singing to do. And more stripping. By the time I get to the end of my set, my bra and my panties lie dormant on top of the pile of clothes next to me.
My body is completely exposed, on a tawdry display for the entertainment of a bunch of drunken misogynistic pigs. And the worst of them all is my boss. Excuse me, ex-boss .He’s the reason I ended up in this humiliating situation, the reason I’m standing naked in front of dozens of drooling men. And worst of all, he’s also the reason why I’m drenched… down there.
Really, Mindy?
How is this even possible?
How does he have this effect on you, even now?
How??
Unfortunately, the solution to how Maron Korolev manages to arouse me just with his sheer presence remains a mystery. I don’t get time to dwell on it. Even though my set for the night is almost finished, the degrading hoots and hollers continue. A few of the guests begin crudely propositioning me right from their seats.
"Hey suka , how about you come keep my company later?" One leers, flashing a wad of cash. "I'll make it worthwhile!"
" Poshel na khuy, mudak , she needs a real man like me!" says another. "Name your price, gorgeous."
"Don't be shy, we'll show you a good time!"
I try to ignore the drunken noise. "Gentlemen, it's time for the final song," I say softly into the microphone as I begin to wrap things up. Even with the song’s relatively short length, it feels like an eternity standing exposed in front of them. "Thank you, gentlemen," I whisper into the mic when the song comes to an end. "I hope you all had a good time." With a bow, I watch as the curtain slowly closes, whisking me away from their prying eyes.
Scooping up my clothes as quickly as I can, I storm off stage without a word or a backward glance. Let them holler and grab at the air - I'm done.
Kevin appears with a pink robe in his hands. "Well done, Mindy, you nailed it! I know this wasn't easy, " he says as he hands me the robe. "Here," he says, "put this on."
Tears of humiliation begin to stream down my face as I quickly slide into the pink robe. I've never been so happy to have a piece of clothing covering me up. Any piece of clothing. Yet, the image of Maron Korolev's cruel smirk is burning in my mind. How could I have been so naive to this vulgar underbelly?And how is it that the last person I wanted to see tonight was one of the VIP guests, sitting in the front row?
And the million-dollar question: why the hell does my body crave him? Even now?
I mumble a quick "thanks" to Kevin, though I'm feeling annoyed with him. It's not worth bringing up how he should have communicated the expectations from the start. What's done is done. I should have seen it coming anyway. Right now, what I really want is to be left alone, or perhaps disappear completely without a trace.
"Mindy," Kevin says, "There’s a gentleman who wants to meet you privately."
"Tell them I'm not interested," I respond irritably, still trembling from the shock. "I've had enough of this bullshit.”
"Thank you for your work, Kevin," a deep, rumbling voice interjects. "I’ll take it from here.”
Shit.
I know that voice.
Double shit.
I spin around, just to come face to face with the towering figure of the last man I want to see right now. Or ever.
Maron Korolev.