Chapter Three

Friday Night (Greg’s POV)

I always loved to ease off stress after work, and I did it best at just one place—the club.

“I’ll be out early today. Put a call across to Bret to come pick me up at 6,” I told Hazel, my personal assistant.

“Get the rest of the details of the pitch across to my email,” I continued. “Clear your desk. We’ll continue with the rest of the work tomorrow. If anything comes up, handle it. If you can’t, let it rest till next week. I won’t appreciate any distractions.”

“Understood, sir,” Hazel replied, walking out and slamming the door behind her.

I was ambitious but aggressive. I loved to separate work from pleasure.

I quickly closed my laptop, packed it into my backpack, grabbed my navy-blue suit, and hurried out.

My office was on the second floor of my three-story building company. I always preferred to use the stairs instead of the elevator as a form of exercise.

“Good evening, sir,” Bret greeted, opening the passenger door for me.

I slid in, slammed the door, and we drove off to my usual relaxation spot—the club.

As usual, Bret handed me the keys and left. I never made it home from the club the same night. It was always an eventful night.

The club was loud, blue-lit, and full of energy. Ladies in lingerie moved around the room, while men drank and laughed loudly.

I spotted a free seat near the bar and took it.

“Welcome, sir. What would you like?” the bartender asked.

“A mix of vodka and champagne with lime and salt,” I replied.

The bartender mixed it perfectly. I took the first sip and felt a familiar rush. My eyes grew a little red. I loosened my tie and went for the second sip.

Then I saw her.

A lady, slim and dressed in revealing lingerie, but with a body that caught my attention immediately. She was beautiful—too beautiful.

I turned my seat and stared at her. She noticed me and returned the look. She gave me a sign to approach.

I walked toward her and grabbed her waist. We danced.

The dance got intense quickly. I didn’t care about what people thought. I grabbed her hips, pulled her closer, and leaned into her ear.

“Follow me to my car,” I whispered.

I didn’t wait for a response. I pulled her toward the exit and dragged her to my car. I opened the back door and threw her in. I got in after her.

“My name is Claire,” she said, breathless.

“That won’t be necessary tonight,” I replied.

I pulled out two ropes from my pocket and dangled them in her face.

Claire’s eyes widened. “I…?”

“Shhh,” I said, cutting her off.

I blindfolded her and tied her mouth.

I removed her bra and directed her hands to my belt. She helped me undress.

Then I took control.

My sex was my escape. It was how I released the anger, frustration, and pressure I felt from my family and the empire I was expected to maintain. I wasn’t gentle. I wasn’t soft. I did things my way.

I pushed forward with force, and she moaned. Her resistance faded. She became quiet. I kept going until I was satisfied.

When I was done, I untied her mouth and let her satisfy me in return.

It was intense. It was raw. It was how I survived.

Claire passed out by 4 a.m.

We both woke up later.

“Good morning, handsome,” she said, getting dressed. “Would my name matter now?”

I didn’t respond.

“Yesterday was hot,” she continued. “I would love to do this again.”

I grabbed her by the throat and pulled a bundle of money from my pocket. I shoved it into her pants.

“I don’t eat from the same plate twice,” I said.

I opened the car door and threw her out.

She screamed, “Are you serious?”

I drove off like nothing happened.

Driving through the streets of California early in the morning, I thought about the life I had. Being a billionaire and the son of one had its benefits—and its costs. So many privileges, so many responsibilities, so many demands. But I lived the good life. Luxury, power, influence, dominance.

Our wealth was family-oriented. My grandfather and father built the empire. I didn’t have room to argue with their expectations.

So I used the club to escape. Not for alcohol or loud music. Not for friends or lap dances.

For sex.

Hard sex.

It was my release. A way to let out what I couldn’t express at home.

It became a routine. A survival mechanism. Different women every night, so there would always be curiosity and expectations.

And I paid them good money to keep quiet. It was just sex, but I did it my way.

I laughed as I drove, mimicking Claire’s shock in my head.

“Are there girls that come to clubs looking for boyfriends?” I said aloud. “Clubs are for one-night stands! Do they need to be educated on that too? Some people are just ridiculous. They should be grateful I offered my car and not one of these cheap hotels with CCTV footage I’d have to clear.”

I arrived at the family estate. The gate opened automatically, and Bret stood at the parking lot waiting for me. He took my briefcase and keys.

I walked inside and was greeted by Aunty Farrah, the head house help.

“Welcome, sir. The table is set, and everyone is waiting,” she said.

“I need to freshen up,” I replied. “I’ll join them shortly.”

I headed for the elevator.

As I rushed to shower, my mother stepped in.

“Another woman?” she asked.

“Good morning, Mom,” I said, giving her a quick peck on the forehead. She was my peace in a home that felt robotic but wealthy.

“Good morning, son,” she replied. “Do you care to ask these girls any questions? Their names? What do they do? Or if they even have a life?”

“Mom, please. I’m tired. I need to shower. Aunty Farrah said everyone’s waiting. We wouldn’t want to keep Dad waiting.”

“We’ve waited for over 30 minutes,” she said. “We could have this conversation now. You could get an infection, or our reputation could be ruined.”

“I can’t get infections,” I snapped. “You know I own the club. Everyone who walks in is medically approved. Nobody ruins my reputation because I pay them. And if they do, I ruin them.”

“Any more questions, Mom?” I asked, trying to end the conversation.

“Greg Hale,” she said, her voice softer. “You’re my son. My only son. I need you to come out right. You’re doing great with the company, but you need to put your life together. I could arrange a girl for you. Reputable families. If you want to sleep with her every night, you can. I mean, it’s all about sex for you.”

“This isn’t about sex, Mom. You know it,” I replied, irritated. “And I’m not interested in those girls who live the same lifestyle as me. If you get me any of them, I’ll make sure they regret it. This life is perfect for me, and nobody is complaining.”

“I’m complaining, son,” she said, tears forming. “Those girls you subject to hard sex won’t have the liberty to complain. But I’m a woman. I know what it feels like to have no say, even for pleasure. I’ve lived it, son. You can do better.”

I couldn’t bear to see my mother cry.

“I’m not having this conversation, Mom. We need to get ready for breakfast. Dad is waiting,” I said, leaving the room.

I closed the bathroom door and noticed a tear drop down my left eye. I quickly wiped it away and took a shower.

Fully dressed and ready for breakfast, I always looked forward to Aunty Farrah’s meals. She had been our chef since I was a child.

What I wasn’t looking forward to was breakfast conversations.