The invitation came in the form of a single-line email.

Wear something tight. No panties. 8 PM sharp. Penthouse address below.

There was no signature. No “Mr. Grayson.” Just coordinates and control. And Sasha knew exactly what she was walking into.

She should’ve been scared.

Instead, she stood in front of her mirror in a black bodycon dress that clung to every curve. Thin straps, a plunging neckline, and a hem that barely covered her ass. Her nipples were hard beneath the ...