My Sex Slave is an Heiress

BelaMilan’s elite nightlife always looked like it belonged to another species of people—ones who never had to calculate survival in the middle of a shift, or memorize which smile meant danger and which meant boredom.The club I worked in was one of those places, tucked behind velvet discretion and membership lists that cost more than my entire life.The guests didn’t see me as a person so much as a function. That was fine. Functions didn’t get emotionally entangled. Functions didn’t get remembered.“Table six is asking for another bottle,” Marco muttered as I passed him behind the bar.“I already sent one,” I replied without stopping.“Yeah, but they’re bored,” he said with a shrug, like boredom was a form of currency I should be paying attention to.I finally glanced at him. “They’re always bored. That’s why they drink expensive things and pretend it fixes it.”That earned me a faint smirk, but he didn’t argue further. He knew better than to push when my tone was like that.I turned

Bela“NO,” I said for the fourth time, pushing away a hanger draped in a cascading, midnight-blue gown. “I am not putting that on. I am not playing dress-up for Sebastian.”The younger maids exchanged terrified glances, looking at the heavy double doors as if expecting Seb to burst through them at any moment.But it was the older servant, a woman with silver-streaked hair and deeply lined eyes named Maria, who finally stepped forward. She gently dismissed the others with a sharp nod.Once the door clicked shut, Maria held up a striking emerald green knitted dress. She didn’t look at me with pity.“Signorina Bela,” she whispered. “Resisting Mr. Ricaforte in private is one thing. But resisting him publicly, in front of the people who are coming today? It will only make things worse for you. Put on the dress. Do not give his enemies a reason to look closely at you.”Her words hit me like a splash of ice water. She was right. Survival meant blending in, even when trapped in a gilded cage.