Aaliyah’s Return

I was nineteen when I followed Geena into The Noir Flame.

Nineteen. Naive. Stupid. Thinking I had hit the jackpot and a few professional photos could change my life. I had already started calculating what I'd do with the money in my head — silly, huh?

I didn't know the cameras were fake. I didn't know the drink they handed me was an aphrodisiac — Spanish Fly. I didn't know I was being handed over like some kind of… offering.

I trusted them. Geena, my sister. Karly, my best friend. They'd talked about this opportunity for weeks — "It's an exclusive studio," they said. "No one gets in unless they're handpicked by a well-known scout."

They smiled the whole way there, practically buzzing with excitement. I ignored the pit in my stomach and believed them. Why wouldn't I?

I remember the smell of the place before anything else — old money, expensive Cuban cigars, sex. Everything was warm, candlelit, and intimidating. The kind of place where people whisper instead of speak.

We weren't even allowed to bring our phones inside.

The main room felt like a scene straight out of Fifty Shades of Grey. Dim lights. A glowing podium in the center. Slow music poured from hidden speakers while a voluptuous redhead in aqua lingerie danced on the pole, her body moving with hypnotic grace. She was art — sensual, confident, magnetic.

Beautiful women walked through the space, clothed in silk robes and lace. The men lounged like kings. Some were deep in conversation. Others had their hands on their thighs and necks. A few just watched.

I was the only one fully dressed.

Fresh meat.

Geena and Karly handed me a drink. "For courage," they said. Then they excused themselves. "We'll wait in the car." And just like that, they vanished.

That's when I knew they had played me.

I stood frozen, heart racing. Before I could move, three men rose from a private section and started walking toward me. Gorgeous, dangerous, confident. They moved like they owned the room — like they owned everything.

Brandon spoke first. A sculpted Adonis with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He looked at me like he could see through me. Like he already knew I didn't belong.

"Hi," he said, voice low and smooth. "I'm Brandon. And you are?"

I answered, almost shyly. "Aaliyah. The pleasure's all mine."

He smirked, like he could smell my arousal. And I hated that I liked it.

Next was Desmond — the blond, All-American hunk. His smile was playful, his voice warm.

"Hey, beautiful. I'm Desmond. I look forward to being at your service." He licked his lips, eyes hungry.

I stammered slightly. "It's… nice to meet you, Desmond."

Then came Shawn. The Blasian tech genius. He was lean, magnetic, and wore a smirk that said trouble.

"Honey, it's lovely to meet you," he said, voice smooth like silk. "Name's Shawn."

His jade-green eyes were unreal. I stared too long. My throat went dry. I took a big sip of the drink before I could respond. "Nice to meet you too, Shawn."

I should have run. I should have gone to the bathroom and disappeared.

But I didn't.

I stayed.

For seven sex-filled days.

Seven days of touches I didn't ask for but accepted. Kisses I didn't refuse. Choices I stopped recognizing as my own. My voice grew hoarse from screaming. The orgasms were overwhelming. The things they did to me — things I didn't even know I wanted.

They weren't just skilled. They were generous. Devoted. Obsessed.

Brandon gave me my first real kiss.

Desmond made me moan with his mouth in ways that should've been illegal.

Shawn made me giggle when he tickled me — made me feel young again, for a split second.

They weren't just seducing me. They were imprinting themselves into my skin.

I gave everything to them because a part of me — a stupid, broken part — wanted to belong. I thought they saw something in me. I thought I was special.

Until the seventh night.

I wasn't supposed to hear them talking. But I did.

"She's not like the others."

"Geena and Karly lied. She was a virgin."

"She's different. Decent."

"Are you sure it's safe to keep her?"

"The contract only stipulated seven days."

I said nothing. I didn't cry. I didn't scream.

I waited for them to fall asleep. Then I packed what little I had and slipped away into the night. No money. No explanations. Just silence.

A few weeks later, the test came back positive.

I was pregnant.

I didn't tell anyone. I didn't go after them. I didn't look back.

I raised my son in shadows and silence. I moved towns, even countries, built a quiet life and waited not for revenge, but for peace.

But peace never came.

Because now, Noah is dying.

High fevers. Bones that crack and reset. Strength that doesn't make sense. Doctors have no words.

One of them finally said: "This isn't medical. This is genetic. This is… something else."

So I came back.

To them.

Not for answers. Not for apologies.

For my son.