<5> The platinum room

ZO’s POV

The first thing I felt was the cold—not the biting winter of the Hollows, but a deep, clinical chill that seemed to have settled into my bones. When I opened my eyes, the ceiling was a blur of gray and yellow water stains. I tried to lift my head, but the world tilted violently, the cracked plaster spinning like a carousel.

“Don’t try to sit up yet.” Roxanne’s voice was like gravel.

I ignored her, my hand fumbling for the edge of the leather couch. My fingers brushed against something soft and heavy. I looked down. A man’s coat was draped over me—thick black wool, smelling of vetiver and pine.

The scent hit me like a physical blow.

Images flashed: Damien’s sneering face behind the velvet curtain. The rough pain of the bond snapping. The terrifying, golden fire that had erupted from my skin. And then, the floor. I remembered the sensation of falling, the certainty that I was about to break, and the sudden, impossible strength of the arms that had closed around me.

‘I’ve got you.’

I clutched the lapels of the coat, my knuckles white. The scent was clean, dark, and so desperately safe that I found myself pressing my face into the collar just to stop the world from shaking.

“Whose coat is this?” I rasped, my throat feeling like I’d swallowed glass.

“It doesn’t matter, Zosia.” Roxanne sat behind her desk, the glow of her cigarette the only bright thing in the room. Her hands were shaking. “What matters is that Nyx’s heart rate is currently sitting at one-forty. The clinic just called. The surge you let off tonight spiked her vitals through the roof.”

I tried to stand, but my knees buckled, sending me back onto the couch with a heavy thud. I felt pathetic, a girl whose body was too small for the power it was supposed to hold.

“I... I need to get to her,” I whispered, my voice breaking.

“You need to get five hundred and ninety dollars,” Roxanne corrected, her eyes hard. “The clinic won’t administer the emergency stabilizer without the balance. They’re already preparing to move her to the public ward.”

The public ward was a death sentence for an Omega in Nyx’s condition. I looked at my hands, the glitter from my set earlier making my skin look like it was already decomposing. Every dollar Damien had saved for her transplant was gone—spent on Cynthia’s jewelry and his new car.

I forced myself to my feet, my breath coming in shallow, rough gasps. I grabbed my heels from the floor, my fingers fumbling with the straps.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to work,” I said, my voice barely a thread. “Put me somewhere. Anywhere. Please, Roxanne.”

Roxanne watched me for a long, silent minute. She saw the way I had to lean against the wall to stay upright. Finally, she picked up the phone. “She’ll take Platinum. Yes. Triple rate.”

I froze. The Platinum Room was a cathedral for the elite.

“Who booked it?”

“Someone who doesn’t care about the price,” Roxanne said. She stood up and walked over, adjusting the collar of my black latex suit. She saw the smoking, warped material where my Alpha scar had flared and pulled the fabric higher to hide it. “Keep the dam closed, Zosia. For Nyx.”

---

The fourth floor was silent. The air here was colder, filtered through expensive vents. I stood outside the velvet door, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I felt exposed in the black latex, every curve emphasized, every weakness on display.

I pushed the door open.

The room was a hollow of gold and shadow. One chair. One man. He wore an obsidian-black mask that hid everything but the sharp, silver-stubbled line of his jaw.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The silver coin rolled over his knuckles. The sound was a heartbeat. Then, the scent reached me—vetiver and rain.

My pulse jumped, a wild, erratic thrumming in my ears. It was him. The man who had caught me. The man whose coat was still downstairs.

The music started—a slow, heavy beat that seemed to pull at my very blood. I stepped onto the black-glass stage, but my movements weren't exactly normal. They were desperate. I moved because I had to, my hips following a rhythm I couldn't feel, my eyes fixed on the man in the chair.

He didn't look at my body. His gaze stayed anchored to my face, dark and unreadable behind the mask. He wasn't evaluating a product; he was watching a girl break.

I climbed down from the stage, my legs feeling like they were made of lead. He didn't move to reach for me, so I closed the distance myself. I needed the money. I needed the safety I’d felt in his arms.

I settled onto his lap. The instant my weight hit his thighs, his body went rigid. A rush of warmth flooded my core, immediate and terrifyingly intense. His hands found my waist, his fingers firm and searingly hot through the latex.

I didn't pull away. I leaned closer, chasing the scent of him. I moved against him slowly, my breath hitching as his fingers tightened, pulling me just a fraction closer. His chest rose and fell in a slow, controlled rhythm that I found myself trying to match.

For the first time since my parents died, I didn't feel like I was the only one holding the world up. I felt protected.

I looked into the darkness of his mask, wanting to see the eyes that could make me feel beautiful instead of broken. His thumb pressed into the soft give of my ass, and a shiver danced down my spine. I moved again, slower this time, my heart slamming against my ribs as I felt his jaw clench against my temple.

“Enjoying yourself?” I whispered, the words barely escaping my throat.

He didn't answer. He reached up, his large hand trembling slightly as he wiped a bead of sweat from my brow. His knuckles lingered there, a ghost of a caress that felt more intimate than any touch Damien had ever given me.

Then, a loud crack shattered the silence. His coin had hit the mahogany table.

He caught my wrist, his strength immense but careful. He turned my hand over and pressed two fingers against my pulse. He didn't say a word, but his thumb moved slowly, gently, over the inside of my wrist.

He was checking on me. He was making sure I hadn't shattered earlier.

The tenderness of it made my throat tighten until it hurt. I leaned over, my lips a hair's breadth from the skin of his neck, waiting for him to claim me, to break the rules, to be the Alpha the air said he was.

But he pulled away.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a thick stack of cash. He placed it in my hand, closing my fingers around it with a strength that made my head swim.

“This is too much,” I whispered, looking at the thousands of dollars.

He didn't answer. He stood up, a tall, imposing shadow, and walked out the door before I could even find my breath.

I stood alone in the Platinum Room, my skin still aching from the phantom heat of his hands. I looked at the stacks of money, then at the heavy, closed door.

Who was he to decide my worth? I didn't want his pity; I just wanted to be loved for the person I actually am.

And then I saw it—tucked beneath the cash was a black card. I opened it to find a single sentence in silver ink:

[Your sister is safe tonight.]

My blood turned cold.

I read it again. Then my eyes lifted slowly toward the empty chair. He hadn’t just been watching me dance, he’d been watching my life.

I immediately ran after him.