The silk sheets clung to my skin like icy river water—luxurious and smooth, yet suffocating. The man above me was a mountain of muscle and strength, radiating a scorching mix of cologne and raw masculinity. In the darkness, his face remained hidden, but I felt his rough hands gripping my hips with commanding power. Each thrust declared his ownership, precise and merciless. His hot breath grazed my ear, each whispered word branding my soul, making me cringe inside.

"Look at me, Isabella." Even hoarse with desire, his voice carried an unquestionable command.


I didn't. My eyes fixed on the luxurious crystal chandelier above. In the faint city light seeping through the curtains, it resembled a giant, silent spider. My body arched instinctively, betraying me with soft moans, while my mind raced backward, smashing through the barriers of time to three days ago.

...

The cold scents of turpentine and paint hung permanently in my apartment—a legacy from my father and a badge of my poverty. That afternoon, sunlight, stingy as a miser's alms, cast only a few pale spots on the dusty floor. I knelt sorting through nearly moldy canvases when a letter slipped under the door. A crimson envelope lay on my worn wooden floor like an unhealed wound.


I stared at it for ages, my heart pounding like a muffled drum. This was the last one. I knew its contents—each word like scalding asphalt, sealing off my last shred of hope. Tuition, rent, ultimatum. The world was reminding me, in the crudest way possible, that artistic ideals mean nothing in the face of reality.

My hand trembled as I picked it up, not opening it but clutching it tightly until the thin paper dug into my palm. My gaze drifted across the cluttered easel to the yellowed photo on the wall. There stood my father, young and vibrant, before a large, unfinished painting. His smile radiant, his eyes full of hope. That same painting now leaned against the wall, dust-covered. The chaotic light within it—once struggling to break free from darkness—had dimmed after years of neglect.


"I'm sorry, Dad." My lips moved silently. "I... I can't hold on any longer." Despair rose like a tide, cold and silent, engulfing my ankles, my knees, then swallowing me whole. I was drowning, and the world offered not a single straw to grasp.

"The pay's better tonight. Go on, Bella. We need the money." My roommate, another dance student struggling to survive, shoved a crisp, freshly laundered waiter's uniform into my arms. "It's the Blackwood Global Art Gala. Rich people everywhere. The tips will be insane."

Blackwood Global. The name loomed like a shadow over every corner of New York City. Their empire was all-encompassing, their wealth enough to buy countless souls like mine, struggling at the bottom. So I went, locking away my pride and disdain in that tiny apartment, and donned the uniform of servitude.

The gala took place in a glass hall perched atop the city, where floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a galaxy of urban lights. The air swirled with expensive perfumes and the glint of jewels. Men in bespoke suits discussed billion-dollar deals while women, like ornate vases, displayed smiles as brilliant and cold as their diamonds. Tray in hand, I drifted among them like a ghost, hiding in shadows. With an artist's eye for detail, I watched them, my scorn growing by the minute. They spoke of art but understood nothing. They were merely gilding their vanity with money.

Yet beneath my disdain, an unwelcome longing crept up like ivy, wrapping around my heart. I craved the plush carpets beneath their feet, the crystal goblets swaying in their hands, the luxury of not fearing the next meal or rent payment. This desire shamed me deeply, as if I'd betrayed everything my father stood for.

"Watch out!" A sharp female voice cut through the air.

I snapped back to reality, realizing I'd bumped into a guest. The red wine from my tray splashed across her pristine white silk skirt, blooming like a massive bloodstain. The room fell silent. All eyes turned to me—countless burning needles leaving me utterly exposed.

"You idiot! Do you have any idea how much this dress costs?" The woman's face twisted with rage. "You couldn't afford it in your entire lifetime!"

"Terribly sorry, madam! Terribly sorry!" The manager rushed over like a panicked lapdog, futilely dabbing at the stain while snapping at me. "How could you be so careless? Get out now! You're fired!"

My mind went blank. Humiliation and fear clutched at my throat like twin vises. I stood frozen, bowing repeatedly in apology, a clown at her own execution.

"Enough."

A low, calm voice cut through the chaos, not loud yet somehow silencing everything else. I looked up to see its owner. Damian Blackwood. Tonight's host and master of Blackwood Global. He stood tall and commanding, his powerful frame wrapped in a dark gray suit. Nearly forty, time had only sharpened his features, making them more defined and dangerous, like polished obsidian.

He ignored both the furious woman and the groveling manager. His gaze—those deep, abyss-like eyes—landed directly on me. Not a kind look, but an appraisal—cold and sharp as a scalpel, cutting through my self-esteem, calculating my worth. Under that stare, I wasn't a person but merchandise, a curious trinket that had caught his interest.

"Her loss. Put it on my account," he told the manager, his tone casual as if discussing the weather. "Now, let this young lady rest backstage." His words were a command, brooking no argument. The manager instantly fell silent. The woman reined in her anger, turning to him with a fawning smile. Power—raw, naked power—played out before me in its purest form.

I fled under a barrage of stares and hid in the cold backstage storage room. My job was gone. I curled up in the corner, face buried in my knees, fighting back tears. My father's face, that crimson warning letter, and Damian Blackwood's icy eyes flashed through my mind on repeat.

The storage room door creaked open. I didn't look up, assuming it was the manager coming to kick me out.

"Isabella Rossi."

That deep voice again. I froze, jerking my head up. Damian Blackwood stood in the doorway, his tall figure blocking the light, casting me in shadow. He'd removed his jacket, wearing only a white shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing solid forearms and an obscenely expensive watch. Each step of his leather shoes echoed through the room—and through my chest.

He stopped before me, towering as I crouched on the floor. "Twenty-one years old. Scholarship student at New York Art University. Oil painting major. Your father was Leon Rossi, died three years ago. You work at three restaurants to cover tuition and rent."

He recited my life like reading a file. My eyes widened in terror—how did he know all this?

"Your tuition has a thirty-thousand-dollar gap. Your rent is two months overdue." Each word stabbed like an ice pick into my vulnerabilities. "Soon you'll be expelled, evicted, and forced to sell your father's paintings for pennies."

"What do you want?" My voice came out hoarse with fear and anger—a cornered animal's growl.

He leaned forward, one hand against the wall, trapping me completely. His scent—cologne and tobacco—engulfed me. His face came so close I could see the faint lines around his eyes and my own pale, defiant reflection in them.

"I'd like to make you a proposal, Miss Rossi." His voice dropped lower, carrying a lethal allure—a snake's seductive hiss. "A proposal that could solve all your troubles."

My heart raced wildly as dread seized me. I stared into those bottomless eyes, waiting for his verdict.

He looked straight into my eyes, his thin, sensual lips forming words that would shatter my pride and beliefs.

"One million dollars," he said, as casually as if buying artwork, "for one night with you."

Time froze. The air solidified. All I heard was blood roaring in my ears. One million dollars. One night. The words hit like concrete blocks, shattering the self-esteem and principles I'd built since childhood. Tears breached my defenses, streaming down my face—not from sorrow, but from humiliation, rage, and bone-deep cold.

He didn't move or speak, just watched quietly—a patient hunter admiring his prey's final struggles in the trap. Waiting for my answer.

I saw the red letter, my father's unfinished painting, the future where I'd be expelled and left with nothing. Reality stood before me like an icy wall with no escape. The purity of art and nobility of soul—so fragile against the brutal need to survive.

I closed my eyes, more tears squeezing through. Then, in suffocating silence, I gathered all my strength to make the gesture that would forever change my life.

Trembling, I nodded. Once. Slowly.