Chapter 1

Bella’s pov

Like a gunshot, the slap shattered the living room.

I staggering back, the sting blooming across my cheek, hot and humiliating.

My fingers trembled as they hovered over the burning skin.

His handprint was already forming, red and accusing. “Do you believe that you are too good for me?”

Franco had a low,menacing voice, the kind of composure that precedes an action that cannot be done.

I blinked quickly to stop myself from crying. That gives him a sense of strength.

I said no in a barely audible whisper.

“My aunt is your girlfriend."

He laughed. It was sharp, ugly.

“That bitch doesn’t even like you. You think she cares what happens to you under this roof?”

I glanced toward the hallway Hoping just hoping that she might have heard, I looked towards the corridor.

However, the quiet on the other end was excessively loud.

She never got involved.

Not when he yelled, not when he touched my hair, not when he "accidentally" brushed against me in the kitchen.

“You are seventeen Bella.” He stepped forward, his voice down to a whisper.

“Old enough to know how the world works. You think sleeping on my couch entitles you to free meals and charity? You want to live here, you pay rent. And I don’t take cash.”

With my heart pounding in my chest, I retreated a few paces.

No,” I said again. Louder this time.

He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Then get the fuck out.”

My breath caught. “Franco...”

He shoved me hard, Glass skittered across the floor as I slammed against the wall, the picture frame falling next to me.

“I said get out!”

With only a small duffel containing my notebooks, a T-shirt, and the little savings I had stashed in my journal, I hardly had time to retrieve my bag.

I was not allowed to wear shoes at all.

All I had were socks and a big sweatshirt that smelt like my aunt's perfume and poor choices.

Behind me, the door banged.

Immediately, the cold struck, slicing through the fabric like a cruel torture.

I gazed into the night while standing on the porch.

Cars passed in the distance. Music drifted from someone’s window.

But here, on this forgotten corner of a dying street, I was nothing.

No one.

I pulled my hoodie tighter and walked.

The streets at night had two faces.

One pretended to be normal fast food joints glowing with fluorescent boredom, distant dog barks, the occasional honk.

The other face of the real one hid in alleys and behind tinted windows, it watched you.

By the time I got downtown, I had stepped in a puddle and my socks were saturated. My gut ached.

Even breakfast, which consisted of nothing more than cold bread and butter scraped from the side of an empty container, had been my last meal.

I put my arms around my knees and slid against a convenience store wall. A man passed by, gazing too intently.

Another circled back, grinning like he knew what girls like me were good for.

I didn't make eye contact.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours.

I pictured my mother's kind, lovely face as it had been before the disease.

Before the morphine. Before the funeral I didn’t understand and the aunt who took me in like I was a used pair of shoes.

I wanted to cry, to scream, to let my sorrow be known.

Instead, I closed my eyes and prayed in a voice I didn't think anyone could hear.

And that’s when she showed up.

“You look like you just walked out of hell.”

The voice was sharp, but not cruel.

I opened my eyes.

Her platinum hair, black lipstick, and torn pants that clung to her legs too long to be fair made her look dangerously gorgeous. As if she owned the street, she squatted next to me and chewed bubble gum.

"Are you hungry?" she enquired.

I hesitated.

“I’m not gonna kidnap you,” she added, rolling her eyes.

“I don’t do broke bitches unless they’re willing to work.”

I didn't speak.

She sighed. “Name’s Jade. And I’m offering you a lifeline. You can stay out here and freeze your tits off or come with me. I’ve got food. Maybe even a way to make real money.”

That caught my attention. “Doing what?”

Her smile curled like smoke. “Dancing.”

*****

Her flat smelt like cinnamon body spray and marijuana, and it was little.

Makeup brushes were all over the floor like confetti, and bras were dangling from the ceiling fan.

She gave me a sweater with glitter skulls on it and some noodles.

“You got the face,” she said, eating chips from the bag. “Big eyes. Sad mouth. Men love that. Especially the rich, twisted ones.”

I didn't respond.

Eating as if my life depended on it kept me too occupied.

She threw a business card at me.

Black. Sleek. The kind that whispered danger.

“Velvet Room. Ask for Max. Say Jade sent you.”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“Dead serious,” she replied.

“It’s not a strip club. It’s “the” strip club. You don’t dance for broke college boys or birthday drunks. You dance for killers in suits. Ministers. Kingpins. The kind of men who buy women like they buy watches.”

My stomach twisted.

“You think I can do that?”

She looked at me hard. “You will if you want to survive.”

I felt the weight of everything weighing down on me as I lay on the couch that night,gazing at the ceiling.

I had nothing. No home. No family. Just a card and a choice.

Maybe this was what falling felt like.

But just before sleep pulled me under, something scratched at the window.

I sat up slowly.

The next room was where Jade was snoring.

The gentle, meticulous tap-tap-tap against the glass was the only sound in the flat.

I turned.

A shadow stood just beyond the windowpane.

Not moving.

Just watching.

A glint of grey eyes caught the streetlight. Cold. Still. Waiting.

Then he lifted his hand... and blew me a kiss.