Chapter 1: Humiliated By All

Joan’s POV

The slap arrived before I could even finish the sentence.

It wasn’t a warning. There was no pause, no building tension where I could see the anger in her eyes. It was just—her hand, and a voice that thundered, vibrating through the very floorboards of our cramped hallway.

"I told you to come back with money," Rita hissed, her voice lashing across my skin like a whip. "Not excuses of why you fall short of the money, Joan!"

My head snapped to the side from the force of the slap. My hair swung forward, but it couldn't hide the heat. My cheek was already burning in a way that forced my eyes to water without my permission.

I didn’t sob. I refused to give her that. Instead, I turned back slowly, facing her with a quiet, hollowed-out dignity even as the tears rolled down my cheeks. 

I didn’t need to touch my face to know the skin was already inflamed and peeling. My fists were clenched so tight my nails bit into my palms, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Rita was already smoothing her silk blouse, her fingers nimble and steady.

That was the most terrifying thing about Rita Hayes. It wasn’t the sudden explosions of violence; it was how quickly she tucked the monster away. She could split the air open with her bare hands, and thirty seconds later, she looked like a woman who had never raised her voice in her life. 

She straightened her crisp collar. She touched her pearl earring once, a delicate, practiced gesture. When she looked at me again, her eyes were like frozen lakes—flat and calm.

“And then you dare to stand in front of me and spin these pathetic lies, Joan!”

“I’m trying my best, Mom!” I cried out. My voice was loud, but it cracked, brittle from the biting winter air that was already seeping through the cracks in the door.

Outside, the first heavy snows of December were beginning to fall. Christmas was coming—a time for family, for warmth, for light. But the woman I called Mother didn't give a damn about the cold settling in my bones. To her, I wasn't a daughter; I was a ledger. An asset. A debt-collection machine.

I had been a fixture at Lux Club since I was fifteen, navigating the smoke and the wandering hands of the city's elite. Now, at twenty, I was still drowning, gasping for air while I paid off the "debts" she claimed my father had incurred before the accident.

“Well, Joan, your best is a disappointment! And from this moment on, you will speak to me with the respect I am owed. I wasn’t the one who sent your father—my husband—to an early grave. You did.”

The words hit harder than her hand ever could. “Mom—”

“Go back to Lux, Joan. Go back and don't come back until you have real money, or I can no longer guarantee you a place under this roof!” She screamed the words, grabbing the five thousand dollars I’d nearly broken myself to earn and thrashing the bills into my face. They fluttered around me like useless, green leaves.

Her cruelty baffled me, leaving a hollow ache in my chest that never quite healed. I spent every waking hour questioning if her blood truly ran through my veins, because no mother should be able to look at her child with such pure, unadulterated loathing. 

At first, I tried to blame the grief—the shadow my father's death left behind—but now? Now, I felt the cold truth: there was something dark in her that grief hadn't created, only revealed.

“Ride dicks if you have to, Joan. Fuck the rich, sell your soul, and body. I don't care. Just do not come back here with cheap change. Now fuck off!”

She snapped the command like a gunshot. I didn't wait for a second strike. I scrambled for the door, hauling it open and throwing myself into the night. The thud of the door slamming behind me echoed like a coffin lid closing.

The snow was pouring now, a relentless white shroud. I shivered violently, the thin fabric of my coat offering no protection against the Missouri winter. I ran toward the roadside, my sneakers skidding on the slick pavement, and flagged down a passing cab with a desperate, jerky motion.

"Lux Club," I choked out as I climbed in, the heater of the car feeling like a mockery.

With trembling hands and lips that were already starting to chap and bleed from the cold and the slap earlier, I pulled out my phone. My vision was blurred, my chest heaving with the effort not to collapse. I dialed the only person who felt like home, my voice a shaky, ruined thread of what it used to be.

“Tobias... Tobias, can you hear me?” I cried. I clamped a hand over my mouth, trying to stifle the sound, but I could feel the taxi driver’s eyes on me through the rearview mirror. He didn't have to say a word; the heavy silence in the car was enough to tell me he knew I was falling apart.

Tobias West had been my anchor in every storm. My "win together, lose together" person. We had met in the trenches of the Lux Club years ago, and since then, he’d shielded me like the sister he never had. Tobias didn't look at women with desire—he looked at them with a protective, artistic clarity that made me feel safe.

“Hey, calm down, beautiful. Talk to me. What's going on? Where are you?” His voice was a low, steady hum over the line.

“Tobias, please...” I gasped, the desperation clawing at my throat. “Can you... Can you set me up? I need a client. Someone rich. I need a hundred thousand dollars tonight, Tobias. I have to pay the rent, the debts—everything. If I don't, she’s going to throw me out.”

“Hey, slow down. Breathe,” he cautioned, his tone shifting into that firm, older-brother mode. “Just get here first. I’m at the bar right now. And stop the crying, Joan. You’re far too beautiful to let your spirit break like this.”

I nodded frantically, though he couldn't see me, and ended the call with trembling fingers.

“Are you okay, child?” the driver asked softly. I forced a jagged nod, a silent, hollow “Yes” rolling out of my mouth as I stared at the blurred streetlights outside.

When we pulled up to the neon-drenched entrance of the Lux Club, I reached for my purse to hand the driver my last bit of cash, but he held up a hand, shaking his head. He looked at my bruised face with a pity that made me want to shrink into the seat.

“Keep it,” he whispered. “Whatever you’re walking into, I hope it gets better.”

I thanked him with a ghost of a voice and stepped out into the freezing slush. Inside, the club was a different universe—throbbing bass, the scent of expensive cologne, and the shimmering heat of bodies. I didn't stop until I collided with Tobias, collapsing into his arms as the dam finally broke.

“Hey, hey, hey. I’ve got you. Come here,” he murmured, pulling me into the shadows of a service hallway. He wiped my tears with the pad of his thumb, careful not to let the high-rolling vultures at the bar see my weakness.

“Is there anyone? Any man I can sleep with tonight and—”

“C’mon, Joan. Stop it,” he snapped gently, cutting me off. “Have you forgotten you’re a virgin? I’m not letting you throw your life away like that. We’ll find another way, okay? Right now, just get into your uniform. We have a floor to serve. I’ll figure something out.”

“Tobias, it has to be tonight. My mom—” I whispered, making sure he understood the ticking clock in my head. I had only hours before the sun rose, and Rita turned her threats into reality.

“I got you,” he said, giving me a quick, reassuring wink. “Go check in with the floor manager. We’ve got a full house.”

I moved through the club like a ghost, hoping against hope that Tobias had a miracle up his sleeve. But the universe wasn't done with me yet. I was navigating through the VIP section, my hands slick with nerves, when the world seemed to tilt.

The tray in my hand grew impossibly heavy. My foot caught on the edge of a designer rug, and time slowed down. I watched in horrific slow motion as a bottle of vintage champagne—a three-million-dollar rarity—slipped from the tray.

The bottle shattered against the marble floor, spraying golden liquid over the pristine heels of the woman sitting at the center table.

Isobel Vance. The undisputed queen of Crestwood University.

“Oh my God…” My voice was a thin, pathetic tremble. I dropped to my knees, sobbing as I tried to claw the glass shards away with my bare hands. A sharp edge sliced deep into my palm, and I watched, mesmerized by the horror, as my blood trickled down to mix with the spilled millions on the floor.

“Joan!” Tobias yelled, sprinting toward me from across the room.

But he was too late.

Crack!

The slap resounded through the VIP lounge, sharp and brutal. It caught me right on my already inflamed cheek, its force sending me sprawling to the side. 

My skin, already peeled and raw from Rita’s earlier assault, tore open completely. I felt the hot, sticky trail of fresh blood beginning to track down my jaw.

“You fucking wretched scholarship girl!” Isobel hissed, her face contorted into a mask of pure, aristocratic rage. She towered over me, her voice cutting through the now-silent room. “How dare you ruin my order?!”