Keeping late nights was one of the bone of contention between Amira and her mother, but Amira had stopped caring. She came home less and less—partly to spite her mother, partly to avoid the confrontations that left them both raw. It wasn't that she didn't love her. She did. But love felt like a cage, and Amira wanted more than what being a good girl could ever give her.
She remembered their last real conversation: her mother's hands trembling as she folded laundry, asking quietly, "When did I lose you?" Amira had walked out mid-sentence. That was three weeks ago. The memory still flickered at the edges of her consciousness, but she'd learned to ignore it, the way you learn to ignore a dull ache.
The transformation hadn't been sudden. It started the night Marcus Bellamy looked straight through her at the Lotus Club. Someone had brought her to him—an offering, a test—and he'd dismissed her with a glance that said everything: *Too poor. Too plain. Not even worth the effort.* She'd gone home and cried into her pillow until her throat hurt. Then she'd stood in front of her mirror for two hours and made a list.
By morning, she'd maxed out her credit card on a cocktail dress and lash extensions. By the next evening, Marcus couldn't take his eyes off her. She made sure to turn him down with a smile sharp enough to cut.
From then on, Amira chased money—not through work, which felt dirty and common, the domain of ordinary girls who weren't as pretty as she was. She'd tried it once: eight grueling hours waitressing for tips that barely covered her Uber home. No. Her currency was different. She pursued older men with fat wallets, men who could give her in one night what two days of wages never could, minus the gifts and the Instagram-worthy photos that made other women seethe with envy.
She did anything and everything these men required. No questions asked. The first time Gerald asked her to call him "Daddy" while his wife summered in the Hamptons, something inside her had recoiled. By the third time, she barely noticed. By the tenth, she suggested it before he could ask, her voice honey-sweet and practiced. They loved her for it—for her lack of squeamishness, for never wrinkling her nose in disgust. She became an expensive commodity, and watching her bank account swell gave her a satisfaction she'd never found anywhere else.
Slowly, methodically, she stripped away every shred of dignity. Who needed dignity when you could have wealth and status?
She fought to fit into a world that didn't give a damn about her. To be seen as worthy, she targeted the extremely wealthy—but they knew exactly what she was. A gold digger. A beautiful parasite. They used her and discarded her, never forming real bonds, though they spoiled her with luxury and designer labels that came at a price she didn't yet understand.
The men destroyed her emotionally, though the erosion was so gradual she didn't notice it happening. First, she stopped returning her cousin's calls. Then she stopped pretending to enjoy brunches with old friends who still believed in soulmates and Sunday dinners. She watched a video of a puppy being rescued from a drain and felt nothing—just a vague awareness that she should feel something.
At a funeral for a client's mother, she checked her reflection in her compact instead of bowing her head during the prayer. Later, standing at the window of the Hotel Arquette at 3 AM, watching her reflection superimposed over the city lights, she realized she couldn't remember the last time she'd cried. She told herself it didn't matter. She pitied the women who still believed in love and fairytales. At least she'd figured out the game.
It wasn't about fun anymore. It wasn't even about luxury. It was about being the woman other women whispered about, envied, hated, and secretly wanted to be.
It was at one of those wild, extravagant parties that she met Daniel Pearson.
She'd arrived with a textile heir named Rodrigo, but her attention snagged the moment she spotted Daniel across the rooftop terrace. He was holding court with three models and a Formula 1 driver, his laughter carrying over the thrum of music. Twenty-six years old. Forbes 30 Under 30. A jawline that made her forget to breathe.
He was everything: rich, young, untouchable. The son of a billionaire oil mogul, he dripped wealth and privilege—the kind of man women fought over, the kind who never had to try. He was perfection, or at least looked like it.
For the first time in a long while, Amira felt something flutter in her chest. Not calculation. Not strategy. Genuine attraction. After Eric, her relationships had blurred together, forgettable and transactional. But Daniel made her feel giddy, almost nervous. The thought of having someone close to her age, not just older men buying her time, thrilled her in a way she'd almost forgotten was possible.
Catching his attention was effortless. She was beautiful—slim, with waist-length blonde hair, wide blue eyes, and features that radiated innocence. Beneath that innocence, though, she was wild, reckless, unafraid to try anything no matter how obscene. She'd learned that men like Daniel craved the contradiction: angel face, devil in the bedroom.
That night she abandoned Rodrigo without a second thought and left with Daniel. Rodrigo texted her seven times. She blocked his number in the elevator. Discarding people when they no longer suited her needs had become second nature.
In his hotel room, she whispered things in Daniel's ear that made his pupils dilate. She told him how much she needed him, how she couldn't wait to drop to her knees and worship him completely. She realized quickly that he loved being adored, needed it the way other people needed air. So she became the most submissive of lovers—anticipating his desires before he voiced them, reading every flicker of expression, every shift in breathing. The slight pressure of her nails. The arch of her back. The way she held his gaze without blinking. Every move choreographed yet somehow spontaneous.
But here was the thing she hadn't expected: she didn't have to fake it. She truly enjoyed his company, genuinely craved pleasuring him. Worshiping him came naturally, and he reveled in owning this exotic creature with huge beautiful eyes and flexibility that could put gymnasts to shame.
She fulfilled his fantasies without hesitation. It was as if she could read his mind—before he could fully form a thought, she was already bringing it to life. She did things to him that would make other women flee in horror, and without realizing it, he became obsessed. He texted her during board meetings. Canceled lunch with his father. When he asked, voice rough with wonder, "Have you done this before?" she lied smoothly: "Only in my dreams about you."
Amira did it all because she wanted him. Because he was her ticket to the life she'd been chasing. She knew the heavens had blessed her with this chance, and she would do anything to keep him. When he traced his fingers down her spine, she shivered—not because she'd trained herself to react, but because she genuinely felt it.
She also realized, with something between shame and exhilaration, that she secretly enjoyed the obscene acts with him. With the others, she'd been counting ceiling tiles, composing grocery lists, making the appropriate sounds while her mind wandered elsewhere. With Daniel, she was present. Electric. Alive.
She didn't feel disgusting after. Didn't immediately rush to the shower with the water scalding hot. Didn't avoid mirrors. Claiming him as hers, letting him use her completely—it made her toes curl. It thrilled her that only she understood him deeply enough to give him the pleasure he craved, the kind he couldn't ask his country club girlfriends for. That knowledge made her indispensable.
And that fact, more than anything, thrilled her to her core.