Sonia: “Can I trust the man who broke me? Can i forgive without Losing myself?” Damon: “Can I undo the sins of my past? Am I worthy of Sonia's love?” Roman: “Can I love without controlling? Would she ever choose me if I let her be free?” *** When Sonia Parks' father is murdered on that fateful night, she believes she has lost all that truly matters, but nothing cuts as deep as the disappearance of her best friend, Damon Baas. Picking up the pieces of her shattered life, Sonia fights for survival-almost. It was desperation that finally landed her in the hands of Roman Rivera, a man both feared and protective, yet her prison. Eleven years later, Damon returns, now a billionaire with the power to free her from Roman's grip, but his help comes with a price: a marriage that feels more like a transaction than salvation. Their undeniable chemistry aside, the pain from their past still haunting them. Now she finds herself between two men who will not let her go. One was her first love who disappeared when he needed her the most. The other was the man who had stayed. Both are willing to fight for her. Will she risk her heart for a second chance, or will their past destroy them all?
View MoreI know how to make men bleed without even having to touch them.
It’s as if the stage is a battlefield, the pole my spear, and every step I take, every slow, deliberate sway of my hips and arch of my back, is a silent war cry.
The room pulses with low music, thick with cigar smoke and the unmistakable stench of superiority. I hate this place.
The club, as usual, is full of men who think they can own me for the night. But I belong to no one. That’s what I like to tell myself anyway.
Not the leering strangers. And especially not the man perched right across from me at the bar, watching me like I’m an object carved out of his own rib.
Roman Rivera. My savior and my damnation all in one.
I feel his eyes heavy on me as I move, dark and focused, possessive in a way that never asks permission. That’s the thing about Roman—he never needs to.
Since the day he found me bruised and bloodied with nowhere to go, I’ve known, deep in my bones, that this man is no good.
In the darkness of that alleyway over two years ago, clad in Armani and mischief, Roman picked me up and nursed me back to health. He rescued me when I thought I had lost it all, and all he asked in return was that I please him. That I obey. So I do.
I keep my face set with unabashed desire, my movements fluid, my body flexible. I need to look like I enjoy this—getting off on the idea of being watched and lusted after—but in reality, my mind is anywhere but here. This is nothing but an act to me.
Swift and elegant, I swing myself up the pole with my left arm and hook my leg around it to keep myself up. I spin in a slow circle, then use my free hand to trace a pathway from the center of my unclothed chest down to the hem of my neon bikini bottoms.
Fuck, my nipples are cold.
Then, just like Monica helped me rehearse, I tip my head back and spin around once more, thrusting my pussy into the pole and grinding deeper and deeper.
And as I part my lips into a sensual moan, money rains.
It’s moves like this that make me Euphoria’s best stripper. Moves like this that come with tips big enough to pay off my debt quicker.
From catcalls to hundred-dollar bills being thrown in my face and stuffed into my panties, there is a strange familiarity in this little performance I’ve perfected over the years.
Dismounting the pole, I face away from the audience and sway my hips, slow and sensual. The crowd only gets louder.
And when I turn around, I see a satisfied grin on Roman’s face. He likes my performance. I’ve made him some good money tonight.
Smiling wide and plastic, I wave at my audience of shit-eating admirers and think to myself—if only they knew how badly I want to set them all on fire.
But they don’t. And I never will.
So I keep dancing.
I’ve been trained for this. Trained to make them want, make them beg, make them need. And I’m damn good at it.
Then, the sound of a chair scraping against the marble tiles catches my attention. I turn my head slightly, expecting to be met with the face of just another stranger, but instead, I do a double take as I lock eyes with a beautiful ghost.
A wave of dizziness washes over me as my face blanches.
Yet, even in my current state, there are three things I know about this man:
One, even as he stands in the shadows, his energy takes up all the space in the room.
Two, his parents’ chromosomes mixed wonderfully well.
And three, without a doubt, this beautiful ghost isn’t a ghost at all. He is flesh and blood, and time has only sharpened his edges.
He shouldn’t be here.
He can’t be real.
I blink once. Twice. He doesn’t go away.
Damon Baas.
The air feels too thick, pressing against my throat. He disappeared from my life like a breath stolen by the night—eleven years of nothing. Not a word, not a whisper. And now, he’s standing here, his suit tailored to perfection, his presence tainting the atmosphere of Euphoria.
My body forgets the choreography as soon as we lock eyes.
And for the first time in years, I falter on stage. I have no control over my own performance, and my limbs feel like stone as I fumble over my steps, trying to gather myself.
I become harshly aware of how naked I am in nothing but neon pink bikini bottoms and six-inch heels, how frizzy my jet-black curls have gotten since I got on stage, how flushed I feel since I saw him.
God, it’s like a furnace in here now.
I am a deer caught in headlights, and he senses it. He always has a sixth sense when it comes to me.
Damon weaves his way through the club without breaking eye contact, and he doesn’t stop moving until he’s at the frontline of my stage. My breath hitches, my chest tightening with something raw and violent.
Damon’s gaze locks onto mine, and in that moment, the club around us ceases to exist.
But Roman sees it. Of course, he sees it.
I barely have time to react before Roman rises from his seat, his glass of whiskey set down with deliberate care. He moves through the club with the kind of authority that makes men step aside without question.
Damon doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. If anything, he looks amused as Roman approaches.
The tension between them crackles like a live wire.
I know what Roman is capable of. He isn’t just a businessman—he’s the kind of man whose name makes people lower their voices. The kind of man who doesn’t tolerate threats to what’s his.
Roman is a thug.
But Damon?
Damon already walked away from me once. Who knows what he’s capable of now?
Yet, when he finally speaks, his gaze now focused on Roman, his voice is steel wrapped in velvet.
“I’ll take a private dance,” Damon says, his eyes never leaving mine. “With her.”
I stop dancing altogether. My hands are trembling now and my heart feels as though it’s ready to leap out of my chest.
Roman forces a smile—slow and dangerous.
The kind of smile that promises blood. The kind of smile that feels like a threat.
My pulse roars in my ears.
Because I know—this is only the beginning.
His smirk lingers even after I break free, but I don’t run this time. Instead, I stand there, pulse hammering, fists clenched. Damon watches me with that infuriating amusement, like he’s enjoying every second of my frustration.“Are you done being dramatic?” he asks.I scoff. “Are you?”“You’re the one storming off in a silk dress like a rejected princess.”“You’re the one chasing after me like a lost puppy.”His smirk deepens. “Please. If I were a lost puppy, you’d be crying about how cute I am.”I roll my eyes and turn away, but he’s already moving, stepping in front of me to block my path. “Where exactly do you think you are going?”“Away from you.”“Right. Because that’s worked out so well before.”I narrow my eyes, irritation bubbling hotter. He always did this—poked and prodded until I snapped. “You’re insufferable.”“I’ve been told,” he says smoothly, leaning against the wall like he has all the time in the world.I glare at him, and then, without thinking, I jab my fingers int
I barely remember getting out of the car. The exhaustion is bone-deep, clinging to me like a second skin. Damon doesn't rush me. He doesn't speak, either. He just walks beside me, steady, quiet.As we step inside, I register the grand entryway in passing—dark marble floors, a glittering chandelier overhead, the scent of something rich and expensive lingering in the air. It's suffocating.By the time we reach a bedroom—large, minimally decorated, with sheets that look absurdly soft—I'm already shutting down. "You need to sleep," Damon says. It's not a suggestion.I should fight, should argue, but when I feel the bed dip beneath me, everything else fades. My eyes close before I can even think about how dangerous it is to fall asleep in Damon Baas' home.I wake up to sunlight streaming through the curtains. For a moment, disoriented and groggy, I forget where I am. Then I see the room—its clean, calculated perfection—and it all comes back. Damon. Last night. The sheer exhaustion that kno
The car ride is silent except for the soft hum of the radio to fill the weight of the tension. I stare out the window, my eyes tracing the city lights, lost in thought. I am sitting in a car with the man that upturned my world when he left me 11 years ago on the day my father died in a car crash. And with the facts I gathered tonight, his earlier conversation with Roman told me that he knew exactly where I was all this time but did nothing. My thoughts race—why did I come here? Why did I walk right into his trap? I can feel the weight of my own stupidity pressing against my chest.With tears still welling up in my eyes I turn my head to look over to him. We’re sitting in the back of his car while his elbow sits casually on the arm rest. With his eyebrows furrowed, it’s clear he’s in deep thought. I take him in then, languid and slow. Damon hasn’t changed, not really. His dark hair is shorter now, no longer falling over his eyes the way it used to when I’d push it back just to see
I can barely breathe. The air is thick with heat, with anger, with something suffocating that wraps around my chest and won’t let go. Roman’s hands are on me again, his fingers bruising my wrist as he forces me against the wall, his body a wall of muscle and rage. His eyes burn with fury, and there’s a glint in them that tells me this is not the Roman I know—this is the Roman who gets what he wants by any means necessary.“Promise me you won’t leave,” he demands, his voice a low growl that sends a shiver down my spine. It’s not a request anymore; it’s a command. But it’s more than that. His tone, the tightness in his grip, the way he towers over me—it’s all a warning of what is to come.I swallow hard, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. This is how it always starts. His words aren’t a plea; they’re a threat disguised in the illusion of affection. He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t know what love is. This is ownership. This is control.I look away, my gaze flicking to the floor, to
The moment Damon steps out of the VIP lounge, Roman follows.I hear the door slam behind them, the sharp crack cutting through the heavy Baas of the music. My pulse stutters. I don’t move, don’t breathe. I know Roman—know the way his anger simmers just beneath the surface, waiting for the perfect moment to boil over. And Damon? I don’t know what kind of man he’s become, but I know the boy he used to be—the one who never backed down from a fight. The boy who was reckless.I rush to the door, pressing my ear against the wood.“You must be out of your fucking mind,” Roman’s voice is low, edged with venom. “Of all the clubs in this city, you had to walk into mine?”A beat of silence. Then Damon chuckles, slow and taunting. “Didn’t realize you had your name stamped on the door.”“You knew I owned Euphoria and you knew she was here. Now tell me what you want Baas”Another pause.“I wondered if she still belonged to you.”Roman’s laugh is humorless. “Sonia will always belong to me. And you d
The VIP lounge is dark and cloaked in shadows that seem to pulse with the beat of the music and as I step into the room, the tension coils around me like a serpent.Damon sits in an opulent leather chair, his gaze cutting through the darkness, pinning me in place. There’s something unreadable in his expression—part curiosity, part hunger, part something else entirely that I just can’t seem to place. The ice in his glass clinks softly as he swirls his drink, the sound barely audible over the low hum of a Baas-heavy song playing in the background.I exhale slowly, steadying myself. I can do this. I have to do this.This is just another performance. Another game I have to play.He’s just another paying customer, simple.I take slow, deliberate steps, letting the heels of my stilettos click against the polished floor. His eyes track my every move, dark and calculating, like he’s peeling away the layers of my skin with just a look.I should be used to being watched. Admired. Desired.But th
I know how to make men bleed without even having to touch them.It’s as if the stage is a battlefield, the pole my spear, and every step I take, every slow, deliberate sway of my hips and arch of my back, is a silent war cry.The room pulses with low music, thick with cigar smoke and the unmistakable stench of superiority. I hate this place.The club, as usual, is full of men who think they can own me for the night. But I belong to no one. That’s what I like to tell myself anyway.Not the leering strangers. And especially not the man perched right across from me at the bar, watching me like I’m an object carved out of his own rib.Roman Rivera. My savior and my damnation all in one.I feel his eyes heavy on me as I move, dark and focused, possessive in a way that never asks permission. That’s the thing about Roman—he never needs to.Since the day he found me bruised and bloodied with nowhere to go, I’ve known, deep in my bones, that this man is no good.In the darkness of that alleywa
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