Chapter Three
Anya
I reach the club before the sun finishes sinking. My bag slips on my shoulder as I step inside. I don’t usually come this early, but I need the mirror room to myself before the others arrive. My neck still twinges from a wrong lean I did onstage. Survival has a price, and mine sits in my joints—and my pride.
I push past the curtain leading to the dressing area when Jonathan spots me. He stands near the lockers, flipping through a sheet on his clipboard.
“Anya,” he says, strained. “I need a second.”
Every bad scenario slams into me at once.
“What happened? Did something—”
He cuts me off with a shake of his head. “The boss wants to see you.”
Everything in me goes cold before I even understand the whole sentence. “No. No, Jonathan, I didn’t do anything wrong. I showed up on time. I did all the shifts you asked. I didn’t break rules. I—”
“Hey,” he says, raising his palms a little. “Don’t spiral on me. I’m just the messenger. He just… requested you. Directly.”
“Oh my god. He requested me personally?” I wheeze. “Like by name? Why?”
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. The devil knows me by name.
“I’m not told reasons. Just breathe. You’re not in trouble from me. You’re doing great for a newcomer. I even told him that.”
I press the heel of my palm against my forehead. “I can’t lose this job. I barely got enough last week to cover rent.”
“I know. But you have to go.”
“I’ll pass out,” I whisper. “I swear I will.”
He huffs. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the door.”
He guides me down the corridor until we reach the hallway leading to the office wing. Then he tears his hands from my arms like I’m on fire.
“Knock first,” Jonathan mutters. “Never walk in without warning. Don’t do anything stupid, Anya.”
“Is he already inside?”
“Always.”
I wipe my hands on my dress and try not to tremble worse.
I knock, and a deep “Come in” rolls through the door. Jonathan nudges my elbow as my legs refuse to cooperate.
“Go,” he whispers.
I open the door to meet the devil.
His office feels colder than the hall. I walk in with my arms glued to my sides, scared to break something that costs more than my will to live. The man behind the desk raises his head when I step inside.
Cassian Morelli looks worse up close.
Not worse as in unattractive. The opposite—as in he’s way too handsome to the point of being unnerving. I’ve always been attracted to men with a little bit of ugly in them. This man right here? He wouldn’t know what ugly was if it slapped him in the face. It’s way too much. Sharp jaw. Strong nose. Dark hair pushed back. An icy blue stare that pins me where I stand. His suit fits him in a way that makes it hard to swallow, and I drop my stare to stop my body from reacting.
“Close the door,” he says.
I obey. He nods at the chair in front of his desk, and I sit.
“You won’t continue performing here,” he gets straight to the point.
“You’re firing me?” My voice cracks. That sound shouldn’t come out of a grown woman. “I—what—why?”
“You’re done with the stage,” he answers.
Heat crawls up my spine and meets a cold sweat racing down it. I shake my head so fast I feel dizzy.
“You can’t. I need this job.” My words mash together. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’ll get evicted. I’ll be on the street. Please. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
How can someone reason with the devil? The desk between us might as well be flimsy cardboard.
“I’m offering you alternatives,” he says. “Other positions in the establishment. Bartending. Floor—”
But I’m so panicked I can’t hear what he says. It goes in one ear and slips out the other.
“I can’t lose this job,” I blurt. “You don’t understand. I can’t go to a different club. They don’t have security. They don’t—”
He says something else. I don’t process it.
“If you fire me, I’m done,” I stumble to my feet. “You can’t fire me!”
“Sit,” he commands.
I back up until my hip hits the door. I fumble with the handle, twisting it until it jerks open, and rush into the hallway. I ignore him when he calls my name.
And somewhere beneath all the panic flooding me, common sense tells me I just challenged, disobeyed, and ignored a man so powerful he could make me disappear with zero effort. What the hell am I doing?
I speed-walk into the dressing room with a face drained of color.
“Anya? What happened?” Tasha asks.
“He’s firing me,” I sigh, dropping my bag onto the counter with a thud. “He said I’m not allowed onstage anymore.”
Three dancers stare at me, wide-eyed.
“He barely talks to staff,” one says. “What did you do?”
“Nothing! I swear I didn’t screw up. I can’t lose this. I can’t go back to living off crackers.”
Tasha steps closer and puts her palm on my shoulder. “Don’t perform tonight. Don’t challenge him,” she urges.
“I need the money,” I whisper. “If tonight’s my last night… I need enough to last until I find something else.”
“You’re really going to perform?” she asks.
“I’m really going to perform.”
Her expression twists, but she doesn’t stop me again.
I face the mirror. My reflection looks older than twenty-six right now. My derriere still stings from the way panic tightened every muscle. My lashes wobble when I try to stick them on, and Tasha applies them for me. I’m going to miss these women so much.
If the world is kicking me out tomorrow, I’ll make sure it pays me first. Because if Cassian Morelli shuts that door again tomorrow…
My bed might be the sidewalk.
I rush to the stage and grip the pole tight so no one can pry me away. I move slowly at first because I’m scared my knees will give. Then faster, because the crowd shifts closer, and I need them to stay hungry. My fingers slide up my ribs, nails scraping my skin as I peel off the see-through dress I’m wearing. The music is loud enough to drown out the voice in my head telling me I’m humiliating myself.
The bills start raining harder.
God, please.
Please make them throw more.
More filthy money.
More of whatever keeps me off the street.
The thought disgusts me the second it forms. It’s stupid praying to God for this. God doesn’t come to strip clubs.
I drag my heel against the floor and arch back. I should’ve been praying to the fucking devil instead. When I open my eyes and glance up—I see him.
From the glass hallway on the second floor, Cassian Morelli looks fucking pissed. His gaze cuts straight through the crowd and pins me like a knife tip to the throat.
My stomach drops so hard I wobble on my heel. He looks exactly like the kind of man who ends lives without blinking. And I’m next.
I finish the dance faster than I should, snatching the cash with shaky hands. My fingers keep slipping because sweat and panic make them useless. I shove everything into my bag and jump off the stage before the music fades.
A man steps into my space the second I hit the floor. His wallet looks thick enough to break the tiles if it falls.
“Lap dance?” he asks.
I never give lap dances. It’s just never been something I’m comfortable with. But if I take him, I get a room. If I get a room, Cassian loses sight of me. If he loses sight of me tonight, maybe I live.
Maybe.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
I don’t even look back toward the glass hallway, because I’m well aware he’s not there—but actually rushing down to kill me.
I feel eyes burning into me as I lead the man deeper into the maze of private rooms.
Oh, I’m so screwed.