After barely making it out alive, I took a long leave from work and barricaded myself inside my rented apartment for ten straight days.

I didn't even leave for groceries. Fortunately, I had enough dry goods and a few medical supplies—alcohol swabs, gauze, that kind of thing. When hunger hit, I drank water, chewed on stale bread, and rationed the last of my pasta and a few sad-looking eggs.

By day ten, I looked like a ghost this time—pale, sunken eyes, and thinner than I'd been in years.

All I had to do was wait it out. Once the heat Cooled off, I'd be in the clear.

Just to be safe, I burned my scarf and jacket under the cover of night. As the last embers flickered out, my phone rang.

It was Sasha.

Sasha was the head hostess at The Sapphire Club—Ravenport's most luxurious, high-end, over the top nightclub, and my leader.

The second I picked up, her voice exploded in my ear.

"Kaylee Lee! Are you trying to get fired?!"

Before I could get a word in, she launched into a full-blown tirade.

"If you don't want the damn job, just say so! I've got girls lining up for your spot!"

Sasha—my boss—was blunt, hot-tempered, and didn’t take crap from anyone. But she always had my back.

She knew I was new and falling behind on my numbers, so when a good client came in, she made sure they landed in my lap.

I gripped the phone tighter, my knuckles going white.

I needed the money—desperately.

I’d just crawled out of hell alive, and that man—the one who nearly killed me—could show up like a ghost, lurking in any corner.

Breathing felt like a risk. How the hell was I supposed to waltz back to work like nothing happened?

I took a deep breath and tried to steady my voice.

"Sasha... I haven't been doing great with bottle sales, you know that. I'm not really in the right headspace right now. Doesn't matter if I'm there or not."

It was the safest excuse I could come up with.

Sasha scoffed, clearly not buying it.

"Cut the crap! We've got a big shot in the club tonight. You could just stand there, you'd still make bank!"

Then her voice dropped, suddenly serious.

"If you're not dead, then get your ass down here. You still owe me commission for this month."

Then she said something that turned my stomach inside out.

"Kay... Boss Everett is back."

I froze.

Matthew Everett, or as Sasha called him, "Boss Everett." Founder of The Sapphire Club. Fourteen years older than me.

When I was six, my adoptive father sold me off to a black-market ring near the Mersia Republic border.

I was barely breathing when Matthew pulled me out of that hellhole.

He took me in. Raised me for twelve years.

Sasha's voice snapped me back to the present.

"Kay, I don't know what happened between you two... but he came in tonight asking for you—by name."

There was something in her voice, something that almost sounded like... fear.

"When he didn't find you, he lost it. Dragged a bunch of the underperforming girls straight into The Black Room."

The Black Room.

The place where The Sapphire Club dealt with girls who stepped out of line.

It took me a moment to find my voice.

"I'll be there tonight."

...

My scooter was toast, so I flagged down a taxi by the curb.

But I didn't tell the driver to head straight to The Sapphire Club.

"Moss Street, please"

We weaved through the city until we stopped in front of a rundown old tattoo shop that looked like it hadn't changed in decades.

I walked in, and the air hit me with that harsh mix of disinfectant and ink.

The lighting was dim, the walls plastered with framed sketches and flash sheets. Thousands of patterns—snakes, skulls, roses, wings.

But my eyes locked onto one photo: A soft butterfly. Delicate, detailed, its wings glowing with a subtle iridescence.

That was the one.

I slipped off my thin jacket and tugged the collar of my shirt down to reveal my left shoulder.

The gunshot wound had healed into a pale pink scar, snaking across my collarbone. Ugly. Raw. Impossible to forget.

I turned to the man in the chair and gave him a faint, practiced smile.

"Sir, I want this butterfly. Left shoulder, over the scar—make it spread to the collarbone. I don't want even a trace of the wound showing."

The man barely lifted his eyes. He nodded toward the low stool in front of him.

"Six grand. Sit."

...

By the time I got back to the club, it was past 8 p.m.

The entire place had been reserved for a private event.

I grabbed a drink tray from the bar area and took the elevator up to the third-floor VIP suite—the biggest one in the building. A line of girls was already waiting outside, trays in hand.

I hurried to the end of the line.

Once we were all there, Sasha cleared her throat, her voice sharp and commanding.

"Trays steady. Drinks offered with respectd. And remember—when you walk in, look sexy."

Sexy?

I frowned. "We're selling drinks, not sex."

Sasha shot me a dry smile.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to. But just so you know, the guest who rented the place tonight is Don Romano. One of his tips could cover your rent for six months."

That part was definitely aimed at me.

Don Romano. Real name: Luca Romano. Heir to the Bellavita Republic mafia. A man notorious for being a womanizer, living large, and doing whatever he wants.

If he was in a good mood, he'd throw you a fortune. If he wasn't, he could end your life with a nod.

No one crossed him.

The hallway went quiet.

One by one, the girls adjusted their clothes, their poses, their smiles—each one transforming into the perfect, seductive hostess.

I didn't move.

Tray tight in hand, I turned slightly, ready to leave.

Then Sasha spoke, her voice like a leash yanking me back.

"Boss Everett is in his private office upstairs. He said to find him the second you're done here."

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Then I shut my eyes, raised my tray, and straightened my posture like the rest—head bowed, the picture of obedience.

"Don't worry, Sasha. I'm not going anywhere. I'll hit my commission this month."

"Mmm..."

She let out a slow, deep sigh

Her gaze lingered on me.

Thick foundation. Blood-red lips. Heavy eyeshadow. I looked like a drag-show ghost.

She’d never seen the real me—only this painted mask.

Every other girl here chased natural beauty. But me? At eighteen, still young with a softness I should've protected, I wore my makeup like armor—harsh, loud, defiant.

No flirting. No sweet-talking. Just grit and sharp edges.

Sasha shook her head.

"Kay, you don't have to make yourself ugly on purpose. You used to be... really something."

I blinked, caught off guard.

I remembered the first time she saw me. She'd told me I had hair like gold silk, falling down to my waist. Eyes clear and untouched by the world. Skin so luminous it looked like it could glow. Even without a drop of makeup, I had a kind of quiet, breathtaking beauty that turned heads.

Click—

The door to the VIP lounge swung open.

Deafening music and choking cologne blasted out like a punch to the face.

Sasha immediately averted her gaze, plastering on a sycophantic smile. She balanced the tray with practiced ease, swaying her hips with a sultry grace as she slipped inside.

"Don Romano, I've brought your drinks."

Her voice dripped honey.

In an instant, she vanished into the steamy, wine-red glow of the private room.

"Come in."

Sasha's voice floated out, laced with unquestionable authority.

The salesgirl at the front of the line lifted her tray and stepped in.

I couldn't see what was happening inside, but when she came back out, she clutched a thick stack of bills, barely hiding her grin.

The line started moving faster.

I stood outside alone, tilting my head slightly, my expression blank as I stared into the room.

A small stage lit the center of the lounge, where several scantily clad strippers twisted and twirled around shining poles, performing the club's most infamous pole dance. Every move was dripping with seduction.

Luca Romano lounged shamelessly on a massive leather couch across from the performers, one leg crossed over the other.

A flock of flashy, overdressed women surrounded him, clinging to his sides, laughing and fawning over him.

I even caught a glimpse of his profile—he was mouth-to-mouth with a redhead, passing whiskey between them like it was foreplay. It was so casual. So practiced. So... depraved.

Behind him stood a neat row of eight bodyguards in dark suits and shades, silent and stiff as statues, radiating a cold, unapproachable aura.

The lounge was a fever dream of smoke, heat, and chaos.

The girl ahead of me had already walked up to Luca, trying her best to flirt and grab his attention.

But Luca was lost in the arms of indulgence. He didn't even glance at her, clearly unimpressed.

Without looking, he grabbed a wad of cash from the couch and tossed it onto her empty tray with disdain.

"Next."

He didn't bother with a second look, waving her off with clear irritation.

Now it was my turn.

My feet felt like they were bolted to the floor, heavy as lead.

Sasha's stare burned into my back like a branding iron—furious, expectant.

Because I'd just seen that girl strip down to her underwear to please them.

While my mind waged war with itself, paralyzed with hesitation—

A steady, deep voice suddenly spoke behind me, calm yet filled with utmost respect.

"Mr. Hunter. This way, please."

I spun around—and locked eyes with him.

Those familiar light brown eyes.

In the depths of the man's pupils was a stormy vortex, glinting with a chilling sharpness... and a kind of cold detachment that seemed to pierce straight through all illusion.