10PM.
«CHICAGO, MILLAND, THE HELLISH VIRGINS—EMPIRE»
The sound of red heels echoed through the party room as a slender figure approached, clad in a red bikini.
Her curvy hips swayed gracefully, while a black veil obscured her face.
Long black gloves adorned her arms, stopping at the middle of her forearms. Multiple waist beads encircled her waist, and delicate ankle chains jingled with every step.
She wore numerous earrings and layered beaded necklaces, each accessory producing a soft jangle as she moved.
On her left thigh, a dark tattoo, boldly inked, displayed her nickname: «Holy Mary».
Sexual music hung in the air as wealthy men sat in their chairs, their attendants standing behind them, each holding a briefcase.
The men were dressed in a variety of colorful suits, though most wore black.
They sat, drooling at the sight of her as she catwalked toward the pole on the stage, the spotlights following her every move. Saliva slid from their lips as they drooled, some smoking with an air of danger, their eyes never leaving her.
She was the most enchanting seductress and dancer in the club, yet none of the men had ever glimpsed her face, for she always performed behind a black veil.
Of all the women in the club, she was regarded as the most alluring and the sweetest—at least, according to those few who had tasted the experience firsthand.
Men from across the state gathered at the club each night, irresistibly drawn by her allure.
Thanks to her, the club had risen to prominence as one of the most renowned in Illinois, raking in millions of dollars in earnings daily.
She glided toward the pole, effortlessly wrapping her leg around it before beginning to rotate, her movements fluid and mesmerizing.
With both legs suspended, she danced with an alluring grace, her body brushing sensuously against the pole, utterly captivating every man in the room.
The men were visibly aroused, cursing softly under their breath, their gazes fixed unwaveringly upon her.
A few signaled their attendants for money, who promptly opened their briefcases.
With cigarettes perched between their lips, they seized the cash and began throwing it at her as she continued to move with a seductive grace, the bills raining down on her in a relentless cascade.
She began to sway sensually against the pole, her waist curving in slow, deliberate motions as her legs wrapped tightly around it.
Her hands glided over her chest, lips biting the veil beneath her as she moved.
More money cascaded down upon her.
At a corner sat Dorian Harrington, Chief Robertson's eldest son—the very man who had married Kyla and was now Kayla's stepson.
He was seated with his best friend, Max, each with sl†t on their laps as they smoked, drank, and reveled in the lively atmosphere.
Dorian leaned back in his seat, his gaze fixed on the stage, a faint smirk playing on his lips as the dancer moved with hypnotic precision.
"Judging by her figure, she bears a striking resemblance to your new stepmother," Max remarked with a chuckle, adjusting the woman seated on his lap.
Dorian lifted his glass of wine and took a long, measured sip, his eyes never straying from the stage.
The dancer's figure did bear a striking resemblance to Kyla's—but Kyla could never carry herself with such bold allure, nor would she ever set foot in a place like this.
His father would never permit it.
She rarely left the mansion as it was, only stepping out when it was absolutely necessary, such as when household supplies needed restocking.
"That could never be her. Kyla doesn't have curves like that—I've seen her countless times in her worn, threadbare clothes. She could never look this flawless. Stop exaggerating," Dorian said, his voice calm but edged with disbelief.
Leaning in, he took the cigarette from the woman on his lap with his lips, inhaling a long, deliberate drag. Together they exhaled, the smoke curling between them in a lazy, shared rhythm.
"I know it definitely can't be her… but what will you do if it is? Gonna fuck your stepmom?" Max laughed, his hand pressing firmly against the bitch ass on his lap.
A soft moan escaped her lips in response.
Dorian scoffed, taking another long, deliberate drag from his cigarette. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling into the air, eyes returning to the stage. His expression remained cold, unreadable, and perfectly controlled.
"If it turns out to be her, I'll strangle her right there on that pole," Dorian muttered, gesturing to the man behind him.
Without a word, the man stepped forward and opened a briefcase, revealing neat bundles of cash.
Max laughed softly, shaking his head.
"Think about it," he said, brushing his hair back. "She's the reason you come here every single night. And now you're planning to waste the money on her? You really believe that if she turns out to be your stepmother, you'll strangle her on the pole? Dorian… I know exactly what you're capable of. You'd fuck her right there, on that stage, until she forgot her godfather."
Dorian scoffed, gathering the cash in his hand. He looked back at Max, his gaze sharp, cold, and impossible to read.
"Seems you still don't know what I'm capable of," Dorian muttered, a faint edge of menace in his voice, before he began tossing the bundles of cash toward the stage.
Max threw back his head and laughed, a rich, unrestrained sound, then took a long, deliberate sip from his glass of wine, eyes glittering with amusement.
"This just makes me miss Predator even more," Max said with a low chuckle. "Two days feels like forever. He's missing out. The moment he sees his stepmom lookalike, I'm sure he'll buy her for the night."
Dorian scoffed, brushing his hair back with casual precision as he continued fanning the stacks of cash toward the stage.
"And I don't give a fucking damn," he muttered, his voice cold and controlled. He took a slow, deliberate sip of wine, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the dancer.
_____
«THE—BULLDOG»
The Lucifer had a cigarette between his lips as he fucked his partner, a thin trail of smoke escaping from his nostrils.
He pushed the vibrator into her pussy again, moving it faster and faster.
Jericho Robinson, the owner of the club known by the nickname The Bulldog, was a ruthless man who knew nothing but how to destroy lives and property.
His hair was tied back in a ponytail, and multiple earrings adorned his ears.
He drew on his cigarette briefly, then bent over her, taking her b†rasts in his hands, teasing, biting, and sucking with deliberate intensity.
"F†ck, Daddy!" Catalina moaned, her chest rising and falling with every thrust. The bed vibrated beneath them. Her eyes were closed, lost in the heat of the moment, savoring everything her devil of a husband was doing to her.
"Yes, Daddy!"
"I'm all yours, Daddy!"
"Dammit, Daddy!"
He teased her n†pples with a sharp bite, pushing her to the edge, but she held herself back. His hands and the vibrator drove her wild, sending heat and shivers through her body as he continued to play wickedly with her b†easts.
"Oh my fucking God!"
He lifted his cigarette and pressed the glowing tip against her right b†east. A sharp, searing pain shot through her body. At the same time, he plunged the vibrator inside her again, th†usting deeper and faster, relentless and merciless.
Her eyes rolled back. Her breath caught.
"AHHH!"
"Painful?" His voice was cold, husky, and dripping with menace, sending a shiver straight down her spine.
"I—I love it, Daddy! I love it!" Catalina gasped, every word trembling with desire and fear.
A dark, merciless smirk twisted his lips. He yanked the vibrator away and drove his d†ck inside her, hard, fast, every movement precise, deadly, spinning her mind and body into dizzying ecstasy.
"Oh f*ck, give it to me, Daddy! Harder! F†cking deeper!"
He dropped the vibrator, a dark, merciless smirk twisting his lips. Then he slid his f†ngers inside her. Harder. Deeper. Hitting her womb with precision that stole her breath.
"Oh my God… Daddy! Ouch!" Catalina screamed as his fingers moved relentlessly within her.
His fingers danced inside her heat, driving her body wild. Her ass shifted against the bed, responding to every merciless thrust.
He bruised her without pause, setting her clit aflame. And she didn't care. She wanted all of it. Every brutal touch. Every merciless thrust. Every inch of him consuming her. She wanted to be his completely.
She grabbed his tie and pulled him close again.
Their lips met instantly—but he broke the kiss without warning, slapping her face hard and brutally. Her hair fell across her cheeks, her eyes widened, and her lips trembled from the impact.
"I told you—kissing you at the altar was a mistake, and now you dare remind me of it?" His voice was ice-cold, razor-sharp.
"Have you forgotten why we got married? I don't care about your lips, and my d†ck won't stoop to f†cking you. You're infected—you carry a disease, and I won't risk it spreading. So you'll stay the fuck down while I do my business. Did I make myself clear?"
He gripped her neck, choking her mercilessly.
"Answer me!"
She nodded repeatedly through tears, trembling as she struggled to pry his hands loose.
He let go of her and stepped away from the bed.
Catalina coughed violently, blood trickling from her nose. She was truly sick—a deadly illness she had battled for years. Every man she had ever dated had abandoned her the moment tests revealed her condition.
At thirty, she was still unmarried.
Her parents, desperate, devised a plan: she would marry by money. That was how they found Jericho. He accepted her—not for her, but for the enormous offer her family had presented.
They married, and from that day on, peace never visited her life.
Pleasure and pain became her constant companions.
Jericho beat her at the slightest opportunity, leaving her trapped in a cycle of torment and desire that showed no mercy.
"Pick up that trash and get the hell out of my room," Jericho said coldly, a cigarette clenched between his lips. He lit it, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp features.
Catalina rose slowly from the bed, biting her lips as she began gathering her scattered underwear and clothes.
She dabbed at her eyes, wiping away tears while meticulously picking up each item.
Jericho didn't spare her a glance.
He dialed a number on his phone and strode toward the glass wall, smoking with quiet menace. Smoke curled from his lips, filling the room in thick, dangerous clouds as he exhaled.
"Just ten percent of the share. If she refuses, bring her to my room. I know exactly how to put preasure on those desperate little creatures. And once she submits, make sure she signs auction contract," he said, his voice low, cold, and menacing.
His smirk deepened as a thick torrent of smoke coiled into the air around him.
Catalina slipped out of the room, tears trailing silently down her face as the door clicked shut behind her.
Jericho's gaze lingered on it, his eyes darkening with a maddening intensity before he turned back to the glass wall, exhaling smoke with slow, calculated menace.
____
12PM
«CHICAGO MILLAND, CHIEF ROBERT WELLINGTON— ESTATE»
Apart from the cleaners, security personnel, drivers, and doormen moving about the estate grounds, there was no sign of any other maid.
The only servant in the house was Kyla, who was currently in the kitchen—washing dishes while simultaneously preparing lunch for the family.
The sadness in her eyes was unmatched. As she scrubbed the plates in the cold kitchen sink, her hands trembled—no gloves allowed.
If suffering had a face, it would be hers.
She cooked for them, swept every room, mopped the floors, and even tended to the compound—sweeping it every single morning without fail.
Stacy, the Lucifer's daughter, had knowingly pumped ice-cold water into the pipes, leaving her no choice but to wash with it.
Her hands trembled with the chill.
And her parents—why had they borrowed money they could never repay?
Instead, they sold her to this devilish family, leaving her to suffer for their sins. Ever since she had married into this house, she had not been permitted a phone, cut off from the world, unheard and unseen for three long years.
Something splashed into the washing water, and Kyla didn't need to turn to know who it was—Stacy. She glanced down and froze.
Her only new pair of pants was floating in the dirty water.
Kyla's teeth clenched as her eyes locked on them—the pants she had saved, the only decent pair she owned. All her others were torn, shredded beyond repair. And now, the pair she had managed to buy just three days ago at the market was ruined.
How could a family be this heartless?
Kyla's gaze snapped to Stacy, who was leaning lazily against the kitchen door, chuckling. Tears streaked down Kyla's cheeks, hot and unrelenting.
"Feeling so irritated that you have to fish your own new pair of pants out of the water?" Stacy snapped, stepping closer, a cruel, mocking grin twisting her lips.
"You don't want to remove it and continue with your washing your tasteless lunch?"
"I'm washing the plates with ice water, just like you said. But must you do this? These were my nicest pants, and now they're ruined. I have no other pair left—this was my only hope. Even if I wash them again and again, I can't wear them; the color is already fading." Kyla bit her lip to keep from bursting into tears.
Stacy stared at her for a moment before erupting into uncontrollable laughter, crossing her hands behind her back.
She was wearing a bumshot and a big polo, her hair tied into two playful ponytails, and green fur slippers that matched her oversized polo.
"And do I look like I give a damn?" Stacy sneered.
"This is my father's house. You might be his wife, but that's only on paper. Your parents were so desperate for money that they borrowed from my father—money they hadn't seen in years—and couldn't repay it. And in exchange for that huge sum, it had to be you—a filthy pig who isn't even worth a thousand dollars—becoming the price for millions. And now you think you can live happily ever after in this house?" Her lips curled into a cruel smirk.
Kyla stood frozen, staring at her without moving, tears streaming down her pale face.
Her hands remained submerged in the water.
Now she understood where all this hatred had come from—not that she hadn't suspected, but it was clear to her now: it was because of the money.
Yet it wasn't her fault.
She had only learned of the debt after graduating from university, never realizing it was the debt her parents had taken on to pay for her education.
"But that's no reason for you to mistreat me! It's not my fault, and I—"
Before Kyla could finish, a sharp slap landed across her cheek, sending her hair tumbling into her face. She clutched her reddened cheek as Stacy pressed her forehead against hers, eyes blazing with fury.
"Say it! Tell me it's not enough reason for you to suffer! I want to hear it from your own mouth. And mark my words, I will turn this house into a living hell for you. Everything is your fault. If you hadn't been born, your wretched parents wouldn't have had to beg my father for that enormous loan. That money was wasted on you—so yes… everything is your fucking fault!"
Stacy's forehead pressed harder against Kyla's, leaving a red mark on her skin. Tears streamed down Kyla's face as she sniffled, unable to speak, crushed under the weight of Stacy's rage.
Kyla's hands slipped from the water, and Stacy jabbed a finger at her.
"You were brought here to serve us, and you have no right to complain. Just living under the same roof and eating the same meals as us is already a luxury. You're nothing but a maid in this house. And listen carefully—after you finish your poisonous food and dirty plates, there's a set of underwear waiting for you in my room. You will not touch the washing machine, and if you even dare to wear gloves to wash it… consider today your death day, ape," Stacy said coldly, her voice dripping with hatred.
She spared one last glance at the pants floating in the water before finally leaving the kitchen.
Kyla bit down on her lips, clenching her clothes tightly as hot tears streamed down her face.
She glanced at the pot, steam rising in thick, swirling clouds. Wiping her tears from her eyes, she took a deep breath and stepped toward it. Lifting the lid, she grabbed a spoon and began stirring the contents with trembling hands.
Dorian stepped into the kitchen, his eyes briefly studying her. She always wore baggy clothes; he had never seen her actual figure.
There was no way she could be a sexy dancer… holy Mary. Ignoring her entirely, he opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water and an apple, closed it, and took a huge bite before leaving the room.
The echo of his retreating footsteps made Kyla drop her gaze to the door—yet no one was there.
She sniffed, steeling herself, and returned to her work in the kitchen.
*
*
_____
11AM.
TWO DAYS—LATER»
On the balcony, Kyla knelt before two large bowls of water.
Beside her lay the heaps of clothes belonging to her co-wives, Valencia and Catherine, and to her right, her husband's laundry.
She had just finished washing Stacy's garments and spreading them carefully across the garden, only the remaining clothes of her co-wives were left—including their underwear.
The work seemed endless.
She was only twenty-three, yet the hours of toil had already aged her. Silently, with a bowed head and steady hands, she continued washing.
Suddenly, laughter rang out from behind her, and Kyla swallowed hard, instantly recognizing the voices of Stacy and Bianca.
They were doubled over, laughing at her as she scrubbed the clothes. Kyla bit down on her lip so fiercely that it bled, yet she didn't pause.
Her hands continued to move through the water, trembling slightly, as she forced herself to hold back her tears.
"So… you're telling me this is actually true?" Bianca said, laughing in disbelief. "She's the family's washing machine? Oh my goodness… should I go back to my house, grab all my dirty clothes and underwear, and drop them off for her to wash too?"
"With absolute pleasure, sweetheart," Stacy replied with a sly grin. "She's more than capable. And if she refused… she'd be fasting for nine months."
They burst into another round of laughter, their voices ringing out as they turned and headed straight for the poolside.
"Badbitch!" Bianca laughed, and Stacy flipped her hair with a flourish, their laughter echoing across the balcony.
Kyla's hands never stopped moving.
She wiped the tears that had fallen onto her cheeks, sniffing and trying to hold herself together—but it was no use.
The sobs broke free.
Her shoulders ached, her forehead was slick with sweat, and her fingers trembled as they continued stirring the water, powerless against the flood of her emotions.
Behind her, Dorian appeared, leaning against the pillar with effortless ease. His shirt was unbuttoned, one hand tucked into his jeans, the other holding a burning cigarette.
His hair was slicked back, and his eyes remained locked on her as he drew slowly from the cigarette, exhaling a thin plume of smoke.
Behind her, Dorian appeared leaning on the pillar, his shirt open one hand tug inside his jean, the other holding up a burning cigarette, his hair pulled backwards, his eyes fixed on her as he smoked slowly from his cigarette.
No, there was no fucking way, she can't possibly be her.
*
*
TBC