Chapter 1: One Night With The Devil

"Oh fuck. Another night on my back for a man who thinks I'm beneath him." Calla whispered as she adjusted the strap of her red silk dress in the car mirror, fixing a loose curl behind her ear. Her lipstick was sharp, bold red. She looked like she belonged in this world of rich men and locked doors.

She didn't. But no one needed to know that.

The black car stopped in front of a private club tucked into the Upper East Side. No signs. No music. Just glass, stone, and silence. The kind of place that didn't need to prove anything.

She pulled out her phone and reread the message, and sighed.

[Big client. Private job. Don't screw it up. Suite 4.]

No name. No details. Just orders.

"Another night, another hungry male." She muttered to herself as she stepped out. "Let's dance, shall we?"

Her heels hit the pavement as she walked towards the club. The bouncer gave her a long look, he was tall, thick neck, broken nose, face like stone.

"Name?" he grunted, seizing her from up to her feet.

"Calla," she said coolly, chin up.

He checked his phone, then gave a short nod. "Fourth door on the right. Knock once."

"Thanks," she muttered, already walking past him.

The hallway was dim, with dark walls and soft light. Her heels echoed, sharp. She didn't let the nerves show. Never did and never will.

She'd been in enough rooms with powerful men to know one thing... they smelled fear. And they loved it.

At the fourth door, she knocked once and it came opened from the inside.

He didn't say a word. Just stood there, tall, broad, dark-haired, serious as death and fucking handsome like the devil. The collar of his black shirt loose, top two buttons undone. Tattoos peeked from under the open collar. His eyes were black ice.

"You're Calla?" His voice was low, smooth, but cut sharp.

"That's what they call me," she said, brushing past him and into the room like she owned it.

The suite was expensive without trying. Soft lighting. A full bar, whiskey already poured.

"No music?" she asked, running a finger along the back of the couch.

"I like quiet," he replied.

Calla turned, folding her arms. "You don't like talking either?" She asked. He seems not to be bothered by anything in the world.

He raised an eyebrow, just slightly. "Depends if there's anything worth hearing."

A smirk pulled at her lips. Okay, so he liked control. Fine. She could play.

"Then let's skip the small talk." She kicked off one heel, then the other, watching him the whole time. "You didn't ask me here to chat."

His eyes moved over her slowly. Not hungry. Not impressed. Just... measuring.

"Take off the dress," he said simply.

Calla held his stare. Most men asked, some begged, but him? He just demanded. No warmup, no flattery.

She didn't blush. She didn't hesitate.

She turned around, slid the dress down her body, and stepped out of it, with nothing else underneath.

Her back straight, chin high.

He didn't move right away. Just watched her movement.

Then finally, he came forward.

He kissed her like she owed him something. His hands grabbed her waist, pulled her tight. No hesitation. No pause.

His mouth devoured hers, pushing in to taste her entirely.

They fell to the bed, His hands were firm, not asking.

He fucked her like they were lovers in their past lives, hard and almost... passionate. Her moan wasn't sweet, it was sharp, low, real.

The sex wasn't gentle. It was rough, quiet, and hot enough to burn through the sheets. He didn't talk much, didn't make promises. Just fucked her like she was his for the hour, the minute, the second.

She matched him. Gave as hard as she got. No fake softness, not like she did with those old men, no giggles. Just two strangers with too much heat and no rules.

Every thrust he made left her breathless, made her want more, which was strange. She knew who he was to her.. just her client for the night.

With others, she's used to pleasuring them, making them feel good for their payments... but this was different.

This man on top of her was different, good different. It was as if she's the client to be pleasured, which felt wrong. Is wrong.

When it was done, she sat up, breathing heavy as she tried to catch her breath, hair messy around her face. He was already at the bar again, shirt halfway buttoned, pouring himself another drink like nothing happened.

"Cold," she said, reaching for her dress.

He glanced at her. "Get dressed and go."

She gave a low laugh. "Right. Can't have the dirty little escort hang around for too long."

"You knew what this was," he said.

"I always do," she replied. She slipped her dress back on, smoothing it down.

He watched her without smiling. "You'll hear from me soon."

"Lucky me," she sassed, slipping into her heels. "Try not to miss me too much."

She walked out without waiting for a goodbye.

♡ ♡ ♡

Outside, the car was waiting. She slid in and closed the door just as her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:

["Don't forget what you owe us."]

Her jaw tensed. Then another ping.

["We know where your little brother goes to school."]

Her fingers went cold. But her face didn't change.

"Fucking assholes," she muttered under her breath, clutching the phone tighter. She promised to get him the money she owed soon.

"Please take me home." She said to the driver.

As the car pulled away, her reflection stared back at her in the window, red lips that was now smeared, hard eyes, cold mask.

She looked like a woman who didn't flinch.

But that was just survival.

Inside, her stomach twisted with fear. Her hands were clammy against her dress. She was strong because she had to be, but she knew exactly what people like them were capable of.

And if they touched her brother, no mask in the world would save her.