001

The smell of the hospital never really leaves you. It’s a specific, sterile stench of antiseptic and floor wax that clings to the back of your throat, mixing with the metallic tang of fear that lives in the waiting room. My father, Abel, isn't just sick; he is being consumed. Cancer is a greedy, silent tenant that has moved into his bones and refuses to pay rent, eating away at him until the man who used to lift me over his head is now a collection of sharp angles and yellowing skin. I watch the machines beep in a rhythmic, monotonous drone, counting the dollars of his survival with every pulse. It’s a brutal, slow-motion execution that drains the bank account faster than it drains the life from his eyes.

I’ve lost track of the exact number, but the weekly tests alone are a vampire. Four thousand dollars for a scan that tells us nothing but "wait and see." The chemotherapy cycles, the anti-nausea meds, the hospital stays—they stack up into a mountain of debt that crushes my chest every time I look at the mail. I had to drop out of university. The dream of a degree is a luxury I can’t afford when the alternative is burying my father. So, I trade my days for scraps. I do deliveries in the rain, my bike chain rusting, dragging boxes of takeout up four flights of stairs for tips that barely cover the gas. I fold shirts at a retail store where the manager stares at my ass, and I scrub toilets in office buildings after midnight. And my mother, that's a story for another time.

None of it is enough. The daylight jobs are a joke. That’s why I’m here.

The bass of the club is a physical weight, thumping against my ribs like a second heartbeat. The Velvet Room is a seedy pit of sweat and lust, the air thick with the smell of expensive cologne, cheap perfume, and the sharp, musky tang of sex. It’s a sex club, a place where inhibitions are checked at the door along with the cover charge. I adjust the silk mask covering my eyes, the only shield I have against the depravity around me. My outfit is barely there—a black latex bodysuit that hugs my curves like a second skin, cut high on my thighs and plunging deep at the chest to show off the soft, pale swell of my breasts. It’s humiliating, but the tips in this place make the retail wages look like pocket change. This is the only job that pays enough to keep my father alive for another week.

I weave through the crowd, a tray of neon-colored shots balanced on my palm. A table of rowdy boys, probably pre-law students blowing daddy’s money, waves me over.

"Hey, beautiful," one of them slurs, his eyes glazed and roaming over my body. "How much for the mask to come off? Or maybe for you to come home with us?"

His friends snicker, nudging each other like the immature pricks they are. Another one leans in, his breath hot and smelling of stale beer. "I bet that pussy tastes like expensive champagne. You sitting on my face later, sweetheart?"

I force a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "I’m just here to serve the drinks, boys. Can I get you anything else from the bar?"

"Aw, don't be like that," the first one says, reaching out to grab my wrist. His grip is clammy. "We’re just having fun. You working girls are all the same. Teases."

I gently pull my wrist free, keeping my movements fluid and professional despite the disgust curdling in my stomach. "Enjoy your evening, gentlemen."

I turn and head toward the bar, the sound of their laughter fading into the heavy mix of music and moans. Lila is leaning against the counter, wiping down a glass. She’s wearing a red lace number that leaves nothing to the imagination, her mask matching mine. She looks up as I approach, her expression shifting from bored to concerned.

"Those little shits at table four again?" she asks, her voice soft but audible over the bass.

I set the tray down with a clatter and lean in close. "They wanted to know if I sit on faces. Apparently, that’s the standard greeting these days."

Lila rolls her eyes, shaking her head. "Assholes. You handled it well, though. I would have poured a drink in their laps."

"I need the tips too much to start a war," I sigh, rubbing my temples. "It’s just... it’s endless. Every night, it’s the same grabby hands and the same rude comments."

"It’s the uniform," Lila says, gesturing to my outfit. "It screams 'fuck me,' even if we're just serving drinks. But hey, look at the bright side. At least we're not the ones on the poles tonight."

The atmosphere in the club shifts suddenly. The chatter near the entrance dies down, replaced by a hushed, electric murmur. I follow Lila’s gaze toward the door. A man has just walked in, and he looks like he owns the place, the city, and everyone in it.

He’s older, maybe in his late forties, with a sharp, tailored suit that fits his broad shoulders perfectly. His hair is a striking silver, swept back with precision, and his jawline is cut from granite. But it’s his eyes that freeze me in place—cold, gray, and steady. He doesn't look at the writhing bodies on the dance floor or the half-naked women hanging off the VIP rails. He scans the room with the detached interest of a shark inspecting a reef. He walks past the main stage, ignoring a dancer who is bent over, shaking her ass inches from his face, and heads straight for a private booth in the corner, obscured by velvet curtains.

"Who the hell is that?" I ask, unable to look away.

Lila whistles low under her breath. "That’s the guy the boss was talking about earlier. The heavy hitter."

"Heavy hitter?"

"Yeah," Lila says, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Word is, he’s looking for something... specific. And he’s willing to pay a fortune for it. We’re talking five figures just for a night."

"Five figures?" I repeat, the number hanging in the air like smoke. "For what?"

"For satisfaction," Lila says, her eyes gleaming. "The rumor is he’s got a appetite that most women can’t handle. He wants to be fucked, really fucked, but he wants it on his terms. Total control."

I watch the man through the gaps in the crowd. He’s sitting in the booth, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. A stunning blonde in a sheer gown slides in next to him, draping her arm over his shoulder, whispering in his ear. He doesn't even turn his head. He just takes a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, his face a mask of bored indifference. The woman tries again, trailing a finger down his chest, but he merely shifts away, dismissing her without a word.

"Arrogant prick," I mutter, feeling a sudden spike of anger. "Look at him. He treats people like they’re disposable."

"He’s paying for the privilege, Anna," Lila reminds me, though she doesn't look entirely comfortable either.

"Still. It’s disgusting. People like him think money buys them a soul."

Suddenly, my phone vibrates in my pocket, the buzz sharp against my hip. A second later, Lila’s does the same. We pull them out simultaneously. It’s a notification from the payroll app—a direct deposit for tonight's shift.

Lila stares at her screen and lets out a dry, sarcastic laugh. "Wow. Three hundred dollars. I’m rich. I can buy my dream cloth with this."

I look down at my own screen. $320. It’s not nothing, but it’s a drop in the ocean. I calculate the gap in my head. The next round of specialized infusions is due on Tuesday. It costs eight thousand. I have six hundred saved up. The math is a cruel joke.

I shove the phone back into my pocket, my throat tightening. "It’s never enough, Lila. No matter how many shifts I pull, how many asses I wipe or drinks I serve, I’m always drowning."

Lila looks at me, her playful expression softening into something serious. She glances back at the silver-haired man in the booth, then back to me. Her eyes widen slightly, a spark of an idea lighting up her face. She grabs my arm and pulls me closer, her lips practically brushing my ear.

"Anna," she whispers, her voice urgent. "That man. The one in the suit."

"What about him?"

"Go talk to him."

I pull back, staring at her like she’s lost her mind. "Are you crazy? He’s not looking for conversation."

"I know! But listen to me," she hisses, gripping my arm tighter. "You said he pays for satisfaction, right? You don't have to fuck him. Just... beg him."

"Beg him?" The word tastes like ash.

"Yes! Beg for money. Look at you, you’re gorgeous, even with the mask. Walk up there, look sad and desperate—which isn't exactly a stretch—and ask him for help. He’s got more money in his wallet than we’ll see in a lifetime. He might just throw cash at you to make you go away."

I stare at her, my heart hammering against my ribs. The thought of approaching that cold, arrogant man and asking for a handout makes my skin crawl. It’s degrading. It’s admitting that I’ve failed, that I can’t protect my father on my own.

"I can't do that, Lila," I say, shaking my head firmly. "I have my morals. I’m not a charity case, and I’m certainly not going to spread my legs or beg on my knees for some rich creep just because he’s bored."

"It’s not spreading your legs! It’s survival!" Lila argues, her voice rising. "Your dad is dying, Anna. What’s worse, swallowing your pride for five minutes or burying your father because you were too proud to ask?"

"Don't," I snap, the image of her father in that hospital bed flashing in my mind. "Don't guilt me. I’m not doing it. I’ll find another way. I’ll pick up more shifts. I’ll sell my bike."

"Your bike won't cover the bill, and you’re already working yourself into an early grave," Lila says, her tone softening. She sighs, squeezing my hand. "I’m just trying to help. I hate seeing you like this."

"I know," I say, taking a deep breath to steady myself. "I know. But I’m not doing that."

"Okay, okay," Lila concedes, holding her hands up. "Forget I said anything. Let's just get back to work before the boss yells at us."

I force a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. "Yeah, if I have to hear one more frat boy tell me I have a 'fuckable mouth,' I might scream."

"Go serve table seven," Lila says, shoving me playfully toward the other side of the room. "They look like they tip better."

I nod and turn away, adjusting my mask. I make my way across the floor, putting on my customer service face, pasting on a smile and arching my back as I approach the new table. I take their order, my voice smooth and sweet, flirting just enough to get the tip up but shutting down the wandering hands. I drop off the drinks, turning to head back to the bar, when the sound cuts through the heavy bass.

My phone.

It’s not a text notification. It’s a ringtone. The specific, shrill ring I assigned to the hospital.

My stomach drops to my feet. The world tilts on its axis. The music, the laughter, the smell of sex—it all fades into a dull roar. I fumble for my phone, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop it. The screen lights up: City General Hospital.

"Lila," I choke out, spinning around. "I have to take this."

She sees my face and the color drains from hers. "Go. I’ll cover for you."

I push through the crowd, my movements frantic. The music is too loud, the bass vibrating in my skull, mocking me. I need quiet. I need to hear. I shove open the heavy steel door of the club and stumble out into the alleyway. The cool night air hits my sweat-slicked skin, but it does nothing to cool the fire of panic in my veins. I bring the phone to my ear, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

"Hello?" My voice is barely a whisper, trembling so hard I can barely get the word out. Please, God. Not yet. Don't take him yet.

"Is this Miss Anastasia Volkova?"

The voice on the other end is female, calm, and professional. Too calm. It’s the voice of someone who delivers bad news every hour and has learned to detach.

"Yes," I stammer, clutching the phone with both hands. "This is... this is she. Is this about Mr. Abel Volkova ? Is he... is he okay?"

There is a pause on the line. A pause that lasts a fraction of a second too long.

"Miss Volkova," the nurse says, her tone dropping an octave. "We need you to come to the hospital right away."