Stage is Set

Nathan Cross

The city stretched below me like a whore in Louboutins—glittering, loud, and begging to be fucked for the right price. Manhattan always looked better from above. Cleaner. Quieter. Less like it was trying so hard to matter.

Up here, the stink of ambition didn’t stick to your skin.

Down there, everyone’s selling something. Up here?

We’re the ones buying.

I took a sip of champagne. Brutal. Soulless. Pointless. Just bubbles and lies.

The rooftop pulsed with bass—deep, slow, filthy. The kind of sound that made your spine throb and your morals loosen.

Elliot’s people were everywhere. Models who couldn’t spell, actors who thought reciting Bukowski made them intellectual. Hedge fund burnouts pretending their trust funds were talent. Everyone overdressed, overcompensating, and overmedicated.

You could smell the coke behind the cologne. Desperation hiding under foundation and fifteen-thousand-dollar dresses. Laughter loud, forced. Eyes scanning constantly for someone richer, someone crueler.

This was Elliot’s kind of party.

All surface.

All rot.

“Nathan! There you fucking are.”

Of course.

Elliot’s voice always came with that punchable charm—cocky, whiny, smug. A man who thought wearing Tom Ford made him dangerous.

He sauntered over with two blondes trailing behind him like trained pets—identical tits, identical heels, and identical IQs.

“Big fucking night,” he grinned, handing me a new glass like I needed it. “Chloe and—fuck, I don’t know, Tits McGee—won’t shut up about your last little… acquisition.”

I didn’t bother looking at them. Just stared at him and said, “Then maybe I should buy a muzzle.”

The girls laughed—high, stupid, desperate.

Elliot laughed louder, like it was his line, like he was in on it. He always did that. Clung to the edge of every conversation like it was a fucking life raft.

“Classic Cross,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder like we were frat boys again. “Always the killer.”

I moved past him.

I couldn’t stand the sound of another dead-eyed blonde fake-laughing over martinis while talking about daddy’s Gulfstream or some “emerging” artist who just smears blood on canvas and calls it vision.

Everyone here wanted something—attention, access, a picture, a story to tell their next fuck.

They were acting.

And me?

I was the one holding the script.

I paused near the edge of the rooftop, the wind clawing through my hair, the city sprawled below like a whore on her knees—overdressed, overpriced, and begging for attention. Manhattan never looked better than from up high, where the filth couldn’t touch you. Just lights. Lies. And everything I own blinking beneath my feet.

A waiter passed. I took his tray. Dumped the drink without tasting it.

Everything felt stale. Flat. Beneath me.

My phone buzzed.

Greenwich confirmed. Awaiting your greenlight.

A smile twisted the corner of my mouth—small, cruel, all teeth and intent.

The only thing that mattered tonight was already set in motion.

Behind me, Elliot’s laugh split the air—loud, forced, grating. He was holding court like a frat boy with a platinum card, surrounded by B-list models and barely legal ambition. Slick hair. Rolex loose on his wrist. The kind of idiot who thinks power is loud.

We met at Harvard. Same frat. Same society. Julian, too.

But Elliot?

He was always the weakest of us.

Old money. Quick mouth. Pretty face. The kind of man who inherited everything and built nothing. I carved out our empire from blood and leverage. He just snorted lines off the furniture and called it legacy.

Vortex was supposed to be our sanctuary. Our cathedral of control.

Elliot turned it into a bottle service brothel.

Julian understood. Julian always fucking understood.

I was halfway through that thought when she appeared.

Legs for days. Blank stare. Skin scrubbed to look expensive.

She draped a hand across my forearm like she had the right. “I’ve been watching you,” she purred. “Wanna dance?”

“I’d rather put a cigarette out on my dick,” I said, deadpan.

She blinked. Lips parted. Confused. Maybe turned on. Couldn’t tell. Didn’t care.

She vanished back into the crowd. One more wasted opportunity dressed in desperation.

Elliot slithered up beside me, grinning like he’d just discovered fire.

“You’re in rare fucking form tonight,” he said, already three drinks too deep.

I barely looked at him. “That imply I’m ever not?”

He laughed. Sloppy. Loud. “Amber’s here. Tight little thing. Says she wants it rough. Says she can take two.”

I didn’t even hear the name.

Because she wasn’t Lana.

Not even close.

Not the girls who spread their legs like they’re offering me access to something sacred. Not the ones who moan on cue and ask for selfies after I come on their face.

No.

Lana fucking Reyes.

That mouth. All soft lips and razor wire.

Those eyes—dark, furious. Daring me to affect her.

The way she walks like she doesn’t owe anyone shit, especially not me.

That attitude. That fucking attitude.

She looks at me like I’m beneath her.

And it makes me want to drag her to her knees just to hear her choke on my name.

I don’t want her sweet.

I want her wrecked.

Bent over my desk, panties ripped, pride shattered. That smart mouth gagged with her own soaked underwear while I fuck her slow, deep, cruel—one hand tangled in her hair, the other wrapped around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her remember who's in control.

Me.

And when I’m done?

I’d leave her there. Legs shaking. Pussy dripping. Eyes dazed.

Wanting.

Needing.

Ruined.

She thinks she hates me. Thinks I’m just another rich asshole with control issues.

She has no fucking idea.

I’d drag her into the Black Room, shackle her wrists above her head, legs spread wide for punishment. I’d lay red across her skin with my belt until she trembled with every breath—but she wouldn’t cry. Not right away.

She’d glare.

She’d defy me.

Until I broke her.

Until she begged.

Until she moaned my name like it was salvation.

And when she finally came—torn open and dripping, whispering my name like a goddamn prayer?

I’d pull away. Zip up. Leave her panting in the dark.

“You thought this was for you?”

Fuck no.

It’s always for me.

My cock strained hard against my slacks, pulsing. I shifted slightly—just enough friction to ache.

She haunted me.

Not like a ghost.

Like a fucking addiction.

And I wasn’t going to chase her.

I was going to catch her.

And when I did?

She’d never look at another man again.

Because she wouldn’t be able to.

“—And you?” Elliot was still running his mouth. “Surely the great Nathan Cross isn’t going home alone tonight?”

I barely dragged myself out of the fantasy. “Not here,” I muttered. “Not tonight.”

Elliot raised a brow like he wanted to press, but didn’t. He never did when he sensed he was treading water in depths that could drown him.

I followed his gaze.

Some socialite in a dress so tight it looked vacuum-sealed danced like she’d practiced for someone’s camera. Pretty. Manufactured. Expensive in the way that screamed leased not owned.

“Watch this,” Elliot said, tossing back the last of his drink and wiping his mouth like a fucking teenager.

I watched. Not because I gave a shit—but because I had nothing better to do until the night gave me something worth sinking my teeth into.

He strolled over. Grinned. Whispered some recycled line into her ear. She giggled—too loud, too sharp—and grabbed his arm like she was already imagining the I*******m caption.

A few minutes later, she was pressed into his side, tits first, pretending not to notice the bulge she was grinding against.

“Nathan,” Elliot beamed, smug and shiny, “meet Amber Worthington. As in Senator Worthington's eager daughter. She’s been dying to meet us.”

Amber. Blonde. Glossy. Vacant. Pupils blown. Smile loose.

“You’re even hotter in person,” she said, voice syrupy and slurred.

“Charming,” I replied, finishing my drink with all the enthusiasm of a man swallowing poison.

Elliot leaned in close, breath thick with booze. “We’re heading back to mine. Coke, champagne, maybe a little shared attention. You in?”

I nodded slowly. Controlled. Playing the part.

“Lead the way.”

We moved toward the elevator with Amber sandwiched between us like a prize we were about to unwrap and ruin. Elliot practically bounced with anticipation, already halfway hard just from the idea of sharing.

Pathetic.

I kept my face neutral. Smooth. But inside?

I was nowhere near that rooftop.

I was in the Black Room, binding Lana’s wrists to the ceiling beam, her thighs parted, her body slick with sweat and need she wouldn’t admit.

Not Amber.

Not this giggling little groupie clinging to my arm like she thought I might remember her name.

Lana Reyes.

Who walks like she owns the club I built. Who glares when she should kneel. Who says “sir” like she wants to spit it back in my face.

Elliot stroked Amber’s hip, lazy and possessive, like a drunk frat boy claiming a beer pong win. “You should see the way she takes direction,” he said, right in front of her. “Mouth like a fucking Hoover.”

Amber giggled, not even blinking.

Amber turned to me, smiling like a woman too drunk to know she’d already lost. Her fingers fumbled down my chest, brushing the bulge in my slacks.

“Oh,” she purred. “Someone’s excited.”

I didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Let her think it was for her if it made her feel special. I wasn’t in the business of correcting garbage before we tossed it.

Because it wasn’t her.

It was Lana.

Elliot was practically vibrating, grinning like a kid handed his first porno mag. “You’re going to love her,” he said. “She’ll do anything.”

I met his eyes—flat, cold.

“I like when they won’t,” I said.

Amber tugged my tie, trying to be playful, seductive. “You boys look like trouble.”

No, sweetheart. You’re in trouble. You just haven’t figured it out yet.

Her breath smelled like cheap champagne and flowers that were already dead. Her smile begged to be believed.

I said nothing.

Just watched her with the same expression I’d use on a stock report or a bloodstain.

If she wanted to disappear tonight. To be used, ruined, forgotten, I could oblige.

Elliot chuckled, sleazy and sloppy. “She’s in, obviously. You in?”

Amber giggled again. “Oh, I’d love to.”

My jaw tightened.

This was theater. Bad theater. And Elliot thought he was the lead.

“How accommodating,” I said, letting the words hit like ice.

We left the rooftop. Slipped into the elevator, the glass doors reflecting three people. But only one of them mattered.

Amber took my hand, palm damp and cold. I let her.

Because sometimes the act was part of the game.

But my thoughts were already elsewhere.

Already unzipping Lana’s dress in my mind. Already hearing her gasp when I buried my teeth in her throat. Already tasting the salt of her skin when she finally gave in.

She fucking haunted me.

And I hadn’t even touched her yet.

In the back seat of the town car, Amber slid in beside me without hesitation. No shame. No question. Just another pretty little toy expecting to be played with.

Elliot followed, already yanking champagne from the mini-bar like it was foreplay.

She pressed herself into me—perfume thick, voice like syrup. “Aren’t you a man of mystery, Mr. Cross? Or should I say… intrigue?”

I swirled the champagne in my glass, let her mouth skim my jaw, her fingers drift over my thigh like she’d won something.

I wasn’t even there.

I was with Lana.

That mouth, sharp and soft, made to curse my name even while she choked on it. That glare—dark, furious, alive—like she wanted to slap me one second and beg the next. I remembered the way her spine arched the last time I casually brushed her hand, like her body betrayed every ounce of control she swore she had.

I wanted her whimpering my name through clenched teeth.

This is mine.

Not Amber. Never her.

Amber’s laugh dragged me back into the present.

Elliot raised his glass, smirking. “Never one for a quiet exit, huh, Nathan? Always got the main event tucked under your arm.”

I gave him a lazy smirk. “You bring the noise. I just drive the getaway car.”

The car slid to a stop in front of Elliot’s penthouse—steel, glass, and the kind of money that screamed for attention. Amber tumbled out like she was walking into a dream, heels clacking on concrete like a countdown to regret.

I followed. Elliot practically skipped.

In the elevator, Amber was on me again—lips grazing my neck, giggles muffled into my collar. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t react. I didn’t even pretend to care.

Elliot popped another bottle. “To new friends,” he said as we stepped into his glass palace—marble floors, cold furniture, no soul.

Amber swayed through the living room in a cheep gown that looked like it belonged in a Sears catalog. Legs parted. Smile too wide. Body offered like a sacrifice.

I poured a whiskey. No ice. No fanfare. The burn hit the back of my throat and did exactly what it always did.

Nothing.

Elliot was already unzipping her. Showman as always. He pushed her onto the sectional, dragging the zipper of her dress down like it was a strip show. She gasped—soft, fake, practiced.

I leaned against the bar, silent. Watching. Not aroused.

Just calculating.

She moaned when his mouth found her neck. Moaned again when he pulled down her straps.

He looked at me over her shoulder, eyes glazed and eager. “Nathan. Don’t be shy. She wants it.”

Amber turned to me, breathy and smiling, already on her knees like that was the only place she ever intended to end up.

“Please,” she whispered. “I want both of you to fuck me.”

I drained my glass.

Dropped my jacket.

Crossed the room with the same cold focus I use in boardrooms before I dismantle someone’s life.

Amber reached for my belt. Hands practiced. Movements rehearsed.

I let her.

Because sometimes a man needs the illusion of control before he rips it away.

But as she opened her mouth, as her fingers curled around my cock, my mind was nowhere near her.

Lana.

On her knees, but glaring up at me. Pride vibrating off her skin. Lips parted in rage, not desire. Fighting every inch of her own need.

I’d shove her down, not to fuck her—but to break her.

I wouldn’t take her body first. I’d take her will. Her breath. Her ability to say no and mean it.

I’d make her mine—not with tenderness, but with total fucking domination.

And she’d still curse my name when she came, just to feel like she won something.

Amber’s mouth wrapped around me.

It was perfect.

It was pathetic.

She sucked like she thought she was being graded. Moaned like it mattered. Looked up like she thought there’d be praise.

There wouldn’t be.

She was all makeup and moans and silicone and submission.

She was nothing.

But I let her keep going.

Eyes closed. Breathing slow.

Imagining Lana.

Lana bound to the ceiling beam. Wrists red. Legs shaking. Gagged and dripping, eyes wild. And me? Kneeling between her thighs, dragging the edge of my belt down her inner leg while she trembled from the denial I’d forced on her all night.

She’d hate how badly she wanted it.

She’d hate how good I was at giving her nothing.

And she’d thank me with her tears.

Amber gagged, pulled back, breathless.

I looked down at her—lipstick smeared, eyes glassy.

She thought she was doing something.

She thought she mattered.

I let her keep the illusion.

But it wasn’t her.

It was never her.

Elliot was already inside her—grunting, sloppy, rutting like a dog. His fingers dug into Amber’s hips hard enough to bruise, like he could own her if he fucked her hard enough.

She moaned loud—maybe for him, maybe for me—fake and hollow and perfectly timed. Like she’d practiced it in a mirror. Like she’d watched too much p**n and still didn’t know how to feel anything real.

We moved around her like parts in a machine. Smooth. Precise. Soulless.

No fire. No tension. Just performance.

Her body bent when we told it to. Arched on cue. Submitted without hesitation. It wasn’t sex—it was choreography. Clean lines. Hollow sound.

Glass walls bounced her moans back at us, echoed them into a city too busy swallowing its own filth to care. Just another rooftop fuck. Just another night.

I felt nothing.

Not in her.

Not in this.

Just skin. Just sweat. Just emptiness masquerading as conquest.

And still—she came back.

Lana.

Uninvited.

Unrelenting.

I saw her instead. Laid out beneath me, lashes wet, chest heaving. Her wrists tied. Her lip split from biting down too hard to keep herself from begging.

Not for show.

Not for power.

Just for me.

Would she fight?

She better.

Would she scream?

God, I wanted it.

Would she cry?

Only when she realized I wasn’t going to stop.

I wanted to hear her gasp when the belt snapped across her thighs. I wanted to watch her tremble when I dragged the leather down her stomach. I wanted her defiance choking on my cock while her pride begged to survive.

Because if I could reduce Lana Reyes to a trembling, wrecked version of herself—stripped of that sharp mouth and those daggered eyes—maybe I could forget how she made me feel.

Maybe I could finally quit thinking about her.

But if she stayed whole—if she still looked at me like she knew what I really was—I’d have to admit the truth.

That I didn’t want to destroy her.

I'd have to keep her.

The thought made my jaw clench. My body jerk forward. I gripped Amber’s hips too tight.

And she gasped like it meant something.

It didn’t.

None of it did.

The scene ended the way it always did—skin slick, chests heaving, sweat drying in the cold hum of air conditioning. Amber collapsed onto Elliot like a doll someone forgot to put away.

Spent. Satisfied. Grinning like a fool.

Elliot lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, already halfway to forgetting her name.

And me?

I stared at the ceiling. Jaw clenched. Chest hollow.

She was still there.

And I was still hard.

I got up and buttoned my shirt in silence, smoothing the cuffs like it mattered. A ghost of order in the middle of carnage. My reflection stared back in the glass—blank. Bored. Barely fucking human.

Behind me, Elliot ashed his cigarette and poured another drink.

“You used to be fun, Cross,” he muttered, smoke curling from his lips. “Now you fuck like you’re doing inventory.”

I didn’t bite.

He slumped into the armchair like a man proud of raw-dogging a senator’s daughter on a balcony for the skyline to see.

I looked at him—really looked.

Once, he was just a rich kid with a conscience.

Now? Just another animal in a suit. Another predator dressing his urges in silk.

“Same fuck, different name,” I said. “Same hole. Same moan. Just recycled flesh.”

He laughed, low and bitter. “Maybe that part of us already died.”

I turned to the window. The city blinked up at me, all noise and neon. It pulsed like it knew.

“Fucking Tuesday,” I muttered. “Groundhog Day.”

Behind me—click.

I turned.

Elliot stood at the edge of the bed, phone in hand, angling it like he was shooting an art piece. Amber was sprawled across the sheets, limbs twisted, lipstick smeared across her jaw, tit half out, hand shaped bruises blooming like watercolors across her thighs.

She looked less like a woman and more like evidence.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

My voice didn’t hold shock. Just curiosity.

He grinned. “Sending it to her daddy.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Relax,” he said, smirking. “Just this one. Classy. No cock, no cum. Just his little princess, wrecked in a penthouse she doesn’t belong in.”

I shook my head, dry amusement in my throat. “You’re a sick bastard.”

Elliot chuckled, already sliding the screen toward me. “Come on. Her old man’s a Bible Belt senator. Preaches about virtue while blowing oil money behind closed doors. He’ll crawl through glass to keep this off the record.”

He tapped something.

Another image. A different kind of frame.

“Fuck it,” he said, voice soft with delight. “Sending this one too. Wanna see?”

He didn’t wait.

The screen tilted toward me.

Amber—on her knees. Face-fucked. Drenched.

His hand gripped her hair, yanking her head down like he was breaking a horse. Her mascara ran in thick black rivulets, eyes swollen and streaming, mouth stretched around his cock as she gagged, helpless and choking.

Her moans sounded like drowning.

No sound editing. No music. Just breath, wet friction, and the low slap of skin meeting skin.

Then came my part.

My cock driving into her from behind—fast, relentless, mechanical. Her ass bounced with every thrust. Her hands clawed at the sheets like it mattered.

She wasn’t moaning anymore. Just whimpering.

Words leaked through the recording—our words.

Take it.

Fucking slut.

Bet daddy’s proud.

Don’t stop choking, that’s when it gets good.

The angle was tight. Filthy. No faces. Just flesh. Just ruin.

Just proof.

Proof we did it.

Proof she took it.

Proof she let us.

Elliot tilted the screen, proud. “Fucking cinematic, right?”

I said nothing.

Just smiled.

Watched myself disappear inside her again and again. Watched the way her body gave up. The tremor in her thighs. The slick down her legs. The broken way she moved like a thing that knew how this story always ended.

Not a woman.

Not even a person.

A vessel.

Used.

Discarded.

Forgettable.

And I couldn’t stop thinking— how none of it meant anything.

“What are you gonna do with it now?” I asked, voice flat, eyes still on the screen.

Elliot grinned, eyes glinting with rot. “Spank bank, obviously.”

I snorted. “How do you plan on even getting off. You barely see my cock.”

He laughed—sharp, loud, careless. “Fuck you, man.”

I smirked, just enough to show teeth. “You tried.”

We stood there for a second—two men in tailored suits, watching a woman sleep between us like an emptied bottle. Her legs still parted. Her body still damp. The room stank of sex, sweat, and silence.

Amber whimpered in her sleep—low, barely audible.

Neither of us moved.

She was already forgotten.

That was the worst part.

The real part.

I drained the last of my whiskey. It burned going down, but not enough. Nothing ever did anymore.

Elliot sat at the foot of the bed in nothing but boxers and an open shirt, a half-finished drink sweating in his hand, hair a mess, lip still shining with someone’s lip gloss.

I was already fully dressed—buttoned up, cufflinks fastened, tie knotted tight.

He looked up at me, annoyed. “You’re fucking kidding, right? You’re really leaving me with this?”

I didn’t blink. “She’s done.”

“Yeah, and I still have her drooling all over my sheets,” he snapped. “Fucking great.”

I glanced at her.

Amber.

Still half-conscious, legs sticky, stomach rising and falling with slow, useless breaths. She moaned faintly, probably dreaming of something romantic.

Too late for that.

Elliot blew out a breath and smirked. “Should be a fun walk of shame.”

I smiled coldly. “Let’s send her home to Daddy, then. Let her explain the video in graphic detail.”

Elliot chuckled, low and mean. “Think he’ll recognize the carpet?”

“Probably. Looks expensive.”

He shook his head, still laughing, and reached for his drink. “You’re a fucking menace.”

“No,” I said, adjusting my cuff. “Just consistent.”

“Alright then. Guess I’ll wake her up and toss her into a car. Maybe she can cry about forgiveness while her mascara’s still crusted to her tits.”

“Have your maid strip the bed,” I said as I walked toward the door. “Burn the sheets if she has to.”

“She already had to Clorox the headboard twice last week,” Elliot muttered. “She’s used to this shit.”

Amber whimpered behind us, one arm twitching, her leg shifting under the silk sheets like she was trying to pull herself together in her sleep. A ruined thing still hoping to be held.

“She thought this meant something,” I muttered.

Elliot looked at her, then at me. “They all do.”

I didn’t glance back.

Just stepped into the hall and shut the door behind me.

One of Elliot’s staff was already waiting—his live-in maid, arms crossed, no clipboard, no uniform. Just gloves on and a tired look in her eyes like she’d seen more bodily fluids than most morgue techs.

This was just another day in the life at Elliot Harrington’s penthouse.

And she was paid handsomely to pretend none of it ever happened.

My driver was already waiting.

“Home, sir?”

I almost said yes.

But Lana was in my head.

Lana, with that fire in her eyes and venom on her tongue.

“No,” I said. “Vortex.”

The car eased into motion. The city dragged past in streaks of gold and filth, a blur of ghosts and guilt.

I leaned back and closed my eyes.

And there she was.

Lana.

Uninvited.

Unrelenting.

The mouth that defies. The eyes that accuse. The body I haven’t even touched, but already own in my mind.

I picture her bound, wrists red from struggle, eyes glassy with rage and arousal. Her pride slipping. Her voice cracking.

I’ll ruin her slowly.

Turn defiance into desperation.

And when she finally breaks—when she whispers my name like it’s a sin she wants to be punished for—

I’ll walk away.

Because that’s the rule.

No one stays.

Not even her.

The car pulls up to Vortex—our cathedral of appetite. Neon bleeds across the sidewalk, the red sign pulsing like a heartbeat ready to stop. Inside, it’s all leather and sin. Champagne and secrets. A playground built for gods who never learned to feel guilt.

The bouncer sees me and steps aside without a word.

He knows better.

They all do.

Inside, the air hits thick—perfume and desperation, money and heat. Girls glide across platforms like smoke, all legs and illusion. Men in suits lean close, whispering lies with dollar signs attached.

Vortex doesn’t entertain. It feeds.

My booth waits—secluded, low-lit, built for watching. The scotch lands in front of me before I ask. I down it in one shot scanning the room.

And then—her.

Lana.

She moves through the crowd like she doesn’t belong, which only makes her more dangerous. The uniform clings, the heels snap, the hair is pinned back too tight like she’s daring someone to undo it.

She sees me.

And she comes.

“Mr. Cross,” she says, steady as ever, setting my drink down with perfect posture.

I watch her. “You always remember what I like.”

She meets my eyes. “I remember a lot of things.”

That mouth. That fire. I want it spitting curses while I press her down by the back of her neck.

I lean back, slow, deliberate. “You remember what I asked you last time?”

“I remember saying no.”

“And yet…” I smile, sharp. “Here you are.”

She lets out a breath. Dry. “I work here.”

“For now.”

She bristles. “I can handle myself.”

“I’m sure you think so.” I sip. “But some things aren’t meant to be handled. Some things are meant to be unraveled.”

Her jaw tenses. Good. She’s not immune. Just stubborn.

“Is that what you tell all the girls?” she asks. “The ones you try to buy?”

“No.” I watch her closely. “Just the ones who look at me like they’d rather starve than beg.”

She shifts—subtle, but I see it. That flicker of discomfort. Guilt. Hunger.

“You think I’m circling you,” I murmur. “But it’s the other way around.”

She narrows her eyes. “I’m not interested.”

I smirk. “Then stop shaking.”

She doesn’t respond.

Because I’m right.

She’s trembling, just slightly. The tray in her hands, the breath she’s holding, the flush rising beneath her collar. She turns to leave—and I let her.

But before she gets far, I slide something under the glass—a folded bill. Thick. Crisp. A thousand dollars.

She stops. Sees it.

Doesn’t move.

When she finally looks back, it’s with a scowl.

“I don’t want your money.”

I raise an eyebrow. “But you’ll take it.”

Her lips part. “Why?”

“Because I know you need it.”

I let that sink in. I watch it land.

“You’re behind on tuition,” I say softly. “Your mother’s hospital bills are stacking up. You’ve been paying rent in quarters and skipping meals so you can keep her lights on. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

She freezes. Eyes locked to mine.

I lean in, voice velvet and venom. “You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t see the hunger under all that pride?”

She stares at the bill like it might burn her.

“Take it.”

“No,” she says, but it’s barely audible. Shaky.

“You will,” I murmur. “Because it’s already yours.”

She reaches out—slow, conflicted—and grabs the bill. Not for greed. For survival.

That desperation?

That’s what makes her fucking beautiful.

She’s not pretending. She’s not posturing.

She’s cornered.

And I’ve never wanted anything more.

Later, I catch her again—near the back, wiping tables, chin high like dignity’s the only thing she has left. She looks tired. Defiant.

Still holding on.

Still trying not to need me.

I step in her path like a shadow.

“Mr. Cross—”

“Nathan,” I say.

She hesitates. Bristling. But she doesn’t back down.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she says, voice low.

“You needed it.”

She looks away. “I don’t want to owe you.”

“You already do.”

Her breath catches.

She opens her mouth—to argue, maybe. To fight.

But nothing comes out.

Because we both know the truth.

She took the money.

And now I’m in her head.

She hates it.

And I love it.

I lean in, close enough for her to feel my breath on her skin. “You’ll pay me back. One way or another.”

Her jaw clenches. She steps back.

“I’m not like them,” she says.

“No,” I whisper. “You’re not.”

And that’s why I won’t stop.

She watches me leave.

And I know—she won’t sleep tonight.

Because now every dollar in her pocket whispers my name.

And before this ends?

She’ll scream it.