Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Billionaires Dancer: Kabanata 1 - Kabanata 7

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 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

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