**SERA**
"Your sister has seventy-two hours before we sell her to the highest bidder."
The voice on the phone was mechanical, distorted, but the video playing on my laptop screen was crystal clear. Gianna. My baby sister. Bound to a chair in some dark room, her blonde hair matted with dried blood, mascara streaking down her terrified face.
I couldn't breathe.
"What do you want?" My voice came out broken, barely a whisper.
"Two hundred thousand dollars. Cash. You have thirty days from today, but your sister has three days before we move her to a more permanent location. Consider this motivation to work faster."
The call ended. The video froze on Gianna's face, her mouth open mid-scream.
I'd been staring at my criminal justice textbook five minutes ago. The irony tasted like bile in my throat.
My hands shook as I dialed 911, then stopped. The voice had been clear. No police. No FBI. Just money, or Gianna disappears forever.
Two hundred thousand dollars.
I had three thousand in savings. Student loans I was already drowning in. No family. No one to call. Our parents were five years dead, and the rest of our relatives had made it clear we were on our own.
I pulled up my bank account on my phone, as if the number might have magically changed. It hadn't.
There was no legal way to get this money in thirty days.
I searched desperately. Fast money. Emergency loans. Anything. I clicked through page after page until an article caught my eye.
"Chicago's Elite Entertainment Industry: Where Dancers Make Six Figures."
My stomach turned, but I kept reading. Club Nero. High-end gentlemen's clubs where the beautiful and desperate sold fantasy to men with money to burn. The article claimed top dancers could make five to ten thousand a week.
I did the math. Even at the high end, thirty days wasn't enough time. But it was something.
I'd never been to a club. Never danced for anyone. I was the good girl. The responsible one. The sister who sacrificed her social life to work two jobs and maintain a 4.0 GPA so Gianna could have the college experience I never did.
But Gianna was tied to a chair somewhere, waiting for me to save her.
I clicked on Club Nero's website. Applications accepted nightly. Auditions every evening at nine.
The clock on my laptop read 7:47 PM.
I opened my closet and pulled out the only remotely sexy thing I owned, a black dress I'd bought for a date that never happened sophomore year. It was tight, short, and showed more cleavage than I was comfortable with.
I put it on now and barely recognized myself in the mirror.
I looked desperate. Scared. Young.
I looked exactly like what I was: a girl about to do something she'd regret for the rest of her life.
But Gianna's face kept flashing in my mind. The blood. The terror. The timer is counting down.
I grabbed my keys and walked out before I could change my mind.
***********
Club Nero sat in downtown Chicago like a dark jewel, all black glass and red neon. Expensive cars lined the valet area. Men in suits walked through the entrance like they owned the world.
I didn't belong here.
I pulled open the heavy door anyway.
A woman at the host stand looked me up and down. "Auditions are downstairs. Follow the red hallway to the back. Ask for Valentina."
I found a door marked "Private" and knocked.
"Come in."
I pushed it open to find a platinum blonde woman behind a desk, evaluating me with eyes that had seen everything.
"I'm Valentina. You're here to audition?"
"Yes."
"Name?"
I hesitated. "Scarlett. Scarlett Vale." My mother's maiden name.
"Ever danced before, Scarlett?"
"No."
"Ever stripped?"
"No."
She leaned back. "Then why are you here?"
I lifted my chin and met her gaze. "Because I need money, and I need it fast."
"The stage is through that door. Music controls are on the left. You have one song to convince me you're worth hiring. Make it count."
I walked through the door into a small, dark room with a stage and a single chair facing it.
The music started. The lights came up.
And I began to move.
I had no technique. No training. No idea what I was doing. But I thought about Gianna. About the timer counting down.
My body moved on instinct, fueled by desperation rather than skill. I swayed to the beat, letting the dress ride up my thighs. I ran my hands through my hair, down my neck, over curves I'd never thought of as weapons before tonight.
I felt ridiculous. Exposed.
But I couldn't stop. Gianna needed me to be brave enough, shameless enough, desperate enough to do this.
When I finally opened my eyes, I wasn't alone anymore.
Valentina stood in the doorway, but she wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the man behind her.
He filled the doorway like darkness given form. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a suit that probably cost more than my entire education. Dark hair pushed back from a face that belonged on Roman coins, all sharp angles and ruthless beauty.
But it was his eyes that stopped my heart.
Green. Cold. Absolutely predatory.
He looked at me like I was already his.
Valentina glanced between us. "Mr. Vitale wants to speak with you privately."
Every instinct I had screamed at me to run.
But Gianna had seventy-two hours.
I nodded.
Valentina left, closing the door behind her with a soft click that sounded like a cell door locking.
The man, Mr. Vitale—
, moved to the chair and sat with casual grace. He crossed one leg over the other, completely at ease, while I stood there half-dressed and trembling.
The silence stretched until I couldn't bear it anymore.
"Should I keep dancing?" My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
"No." His voice was deep, smooth, and dangerous. "Come here."
It wasn't a request.
I stepped off the stage on shaking legs and walked toward him. Each step felt like approaching a cliff edge in the dark.
I stopped a few feet away, but he gestured me closer.
Closer.
Until I stood directly in front of him, close enough to smell expensive cologne and something darker underneath.
"What's your name, Bella?"
"Scarlett Vale."
His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "That's not your real name."
My pulse jumped. "It's the name I'm using."
"Fair enough." He studied me like I was a painting he was considering buying. "Tell me, Scarlett Vale, why does a girl who's never stripped before walk into my club looking like she's headed for her own execution?"
"Your club?"
"I own Club Nero. Among other things." He said it casually. "Now answer my question."
"I need money. A lot of it. Fast."
"How much?"
"Two hundred thousand dollars."
He didn't laugh. Didn't even blink. "And how long do you have?"
"Thirty days."
Now he did smile, and it was the most dangerous thing I'd ever seen. All teeth and no warmth.
"Even my best girls don't make that kind of money in a month, Scarlett. So either you're incredibly naive, or you're desperate enough to do absolutely anything." He stood slowly. "Which is it?"
He moved closer. Too close.
"I'm desperate enough," I whispered.
"Good. Because I have a proposition for you. One that will give you everything you need tonight, not in thirty days."
My heart pounded heavily."What kind of proposition?"
He reached out and caught my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up to his. The touch was possessive, commanding.
"You strip for me. Only me. Every night for one year. No other men. No other audience. Just you, and me, and whatever I want to watch you do."