Chapter 55

LEILA

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It was midnight already as I reached for the book Misa had used just hours before.

My hands trembled, just a little, as I pulled it close with the cool, smooth cover feeling heavy in my grip.

Inside, the rough sketch of the building, the gates, the guards our fragile escape plan was still marked clearly on the page and I had to get rid of it, somehow and the only thought that was coming to my head right there was to tear it up because I wasn’t comfortable.

I tore it clean off, and then I crossed the small room to the closet, I shoved the torn page deep behind the clothes, pushing it right into the furthest corner, careful, so damn careful, not to disturb anything, not to make it look like anyone had been rummaging, no one would actually think to look there, I told myself, not if I could just manage to play this right, if I could keep the panic from showing on my face.

Misa was already up, already dressed in one of the gowns that had been brought in sometime in the night.

She stood near the bed, one hip cocked slightly, her vibrant red hair falling in perfect, almost defiant waves around her shoulders.

She didn’t say anything, not a word, just watched me, her eyes tracking my movements with that look she always had, calculating and sharp.

There was a dangerous edge to her too, a sort of coiled tension beneath the surface of her too-pretty face.

She was a wild thing, barely contained, it keeps coming to my head everytime.

Not long after, maybe only a few minutes, maybe an hour, time felt warped in that place, the guard came in and then just slid the door open while he just stared at us for a moment, his expression unreadable, like we were objects, not people.

“You’ll be picked up in five,” he said, his voice rough, “please wear that.”

I followed his gaze but on the hanger hung some gowns, he knew I was going to wear what I currently had on which made me angry that he was asking that I wear that, which screamed sex.

It screamed performance.

It screamed everything I didn’t want to be tonight, although it actually was beautiful or will I use cute, It glittered even in the dim room light, slinky and cut deep, in a violent, almost obscene shade of red.

It was tight, I could see that even from a distance, one wrong step, one wrong breath, and it felt like everything would spill out and it will be quite humiliating to see your dress ruin that way.

I looked at Misa, expecting some reaction, maybe a shared look of disgust, but she didn’t flinch. Her face remained composed, that slight, knowing tilt to her head.

“Of course,” she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear over the blood pounding in my ears. “Fucking Alvaros.” The curse word was low, weary, full of a deep-seated resentment that resonated with something buried inside me.

So, I dressed.

The fabric, thin and clinging, hugged my skin in all the places that felt wrong, yet were apparently designed to feel oh-so-right. The slit in the skirt rode high up my thigh, showing more leg than I was comfortable with, and the neckline plunged lower than my patience for this entire situation.

It felt like wearing a dare.

The ride to the club was quiet, unnervingly so after the tense rush of getting ready. The car was sleek, with dark tinted windows that turned the vibrant, chaotic life of New York outside into muted, blurry shapes.

All I could hear was the low, constant hum of the engine, a steady drone that vibrated through the expensive leather seats, and the occasional soft creak as I shifted, trying to find a comfortable position in the restrictive dress.

Misa didn’t talk either.

She just tapped her fingers on the seat beside me, a rhythmic, insistent sound that filled the silence.

Her eyes were locked ahead, fixed on something I couldn’t see, maybe counting seconds, maybe seeing the future.

As the door opened, the full assault began.

Music, heavy and insistent, thumped in my chest.

Heat, humid and close, pressed in. Perfume and smoke mixed with sweat and something else, something that felt like sin and desperation.

The lights outside were a harsh, pulsing red against the deepening twilight, thick with haze. Velvet ropes, separating the inside from the street, looked plush and menacing.

Bouncers with eyes too sharp, missing nothing, stood sentinel.

We were led down a long hallway that seemed to swallow sound, muffling the club’s roar until we pushed through another set of heavy doors.

Inside was worse or maybe better.

It depended entirely on how fucked in the head you were, I supposed.

The club was a cavern dripping with heat and hunger.

Booths lined the walls, curving into crescent shadows, offering pockets of dim escape from the pulsing lights, and the girls… the girls were already dancing.

Bodies slick with sweat, hair swinging with the force of their movements, eyes locked, hungry and predatory, on every man with a name, with money, with power.

Then she came, gliding towards us through the haze and the bodies like a ship sailing through a storm.

Madam Cha.

She wore a gown made of knives and attitude, all sharp edges and glittering defiance.

Her smile was wide, plastered on, but her eyes… her eyes were all venom, cold and assessing.

She didn’t even speak at first, just stopped a few feet away and looked at me, her gaze dissecting, like she was replaying some memory she’d rather forget, but couldn’t.

I didn’t smile back.

I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t even blink.

Just met her stare, my face a blank mask, refusing to give her anything.

She nodded once, a small, curt movement, her lips twisting into something that wasn’t quite a smile anymore.

“Leila,” she said, her voice syrupy and low, the sound carrying easily over the bass line.

“You were meant to be working here right.” A pause, weighted with implication, “But your little performance back then.”

She didn’t need to say more.

I didn’t respond.

Couldn’t.

Didn’t need to.

The knowing look Gerald Damien gave me from the booth across the room, catching my eye through the dim lights and the haze, said everything that needed to be said.

He hadn’t forgotten either, the humiliating audition, the failed attempt to please him, he desperate need… he’d seen it all.

Misa hissed next to me a soft, sharp sound right by my ear.

I knew that hiss.

It wasn’t just annoyance, it meant tension.

It meant trouble.