The grand foyer of the Reynolds estate is a cathedral of marble and gold - a place designed to make one feel small. And yet, here I am, the wife of the man who owns it all; a multi-billionaire's bride.
"Zora, my dear! He's finally here," Arthur beams. His arm slides around my waist, his touch proprietary and heavy with a warmth that makes my skin prickle.
"I want you to meet the son I told you about. He's the one who truly runs the family business while I play the part of the retired patriarch."
I turn, a polite, practiced smile plastered on my face. It is the mask of the innocent girl Arthur believes he has rescued from the cold streets - the one he thinks is a diamond in the rough.
I have spent weeks perfecting this look: the lowered lashes, the soft tilt of the head, the illusion of a girl who has never known the bite of a man's hand.
And then, the world stops. The air in my lungs turns to shards of glass, shredding my throat as I try to breathe.
The man standing before us isn't just "Ethan."
He is the occupant of Booth 4. He is the man who sat in the shadows of The Velvet Room every Friday night for three months, his silhouette a dark blot against the neon haze.
He is the man whose eyes burned with a dark, terrifying hunger as he watched me dance, before claiming my body in the private suite with a rough, relentless dominance that left me aching and shivering for days.
He is the ghost that has haunted my nightmares, the one who always paid thrice the price just to ensure that no other hands - certainly not other clients - could touch what he considered his.
His eyes - a cold, stormy grey - scan me from head to toe. There is no shock in his gaze. There is no flicker of surprise to find his father's "saint" standing in his foyer.
Instead, there is only a dark, predatory amusement. He knew. He had known the moment he heard the name.
"Ethan," Arthur says, his voice a jovial rumble, completely oblivious to the fact that the woman in his arms has stopped breathing.
"This is Zora. The woman I'm going to marry. She is a rare find, Ethan. Truly. Very sweet, well-trained, and pure."
The word pure hangs in the air like a joke. I feel the bile rising in my throat.
Arthur pulls me closer, his voice thick with a pride that feels like a noose.
"She agreed to marry an old man like me despite her innocence. We've decided not to wait, Ethan. We're having a quick, intimate wedding tomorrow. A private ceremony before the gala."
Tomorrow. My death sentence has a date, a time, and a location.
Ethan steps forward, the scent of expensive cedarwood and cold rain hitting me like a physical blow. He doesn't offer a handshake. He doesn't offer a polite nod.
Instead, he reaches out and captures my hand. His fingers are like iron bands, cold and unyielding. He bows slightly, the movement slow and deliberate, pressing a lingering kiss to my knuckles.
His lips are dry and hot, and his eyes never leave mine as he rises. He is searching for the girl from Booth 4. He is looking for the "Sapphire" who once begged him to go slower.
"Zora," he murmurs. His voice is a low, guttural vibration that makes my skin crawl and burn simultaneously.
It's the same voice that whispered filthy, soul-crushing commands into my ear while his hands were wrapped in my hair, pulling my head back until I could see nothing but the darkness of the club ceiling.
"I've heard so much about your... virtues," he says. The word virtues sounds like a slur coming from his mouth. "My father tells me you're a rare find. A saint among sinners."
He squeezes my hand just a fraction too hard - a warning.
It is a reminder of the bruises he's left on my hips in the past, marks that are currently hidden by the modest silk of the dress Arthur bought for me.
He leans in closer, his shadow swallowing me whole, the warmth of his breath ghosting against the shell of my ear.
"Welcome to the family, Stepmother," he hisses.
The title tastes like a threat.
I can feel the weight of Arthur's diamond on my finger, a ring that was supposed to be my ticket to freedom, now feeling like a branding iron.
"Ethan is a bit intense," Arthur chuckles, patting Ethan on the shoulder, completely unaware that his son is currently staking a claim on his fiancée's soul.
"He takes after his mother's side. But I'm sure you two will get along famously. After all, you're both the most important people in my life."
"Oh, we'll get along," Ethan says, his gaze dropping to my high collar, searching for the spot on my neck he used to favor.
"I plan on being very... involved in the wedding preparations. A woman of your 'virtue' deserves the very best, Zora. I'll make sure you get exactly what you've earned."
As Arthur leads us toward the dining room, Ethan lingers a half-step behind. I feel his eyes on the small of my back, tracing the curve of my spine through the fabric.
I came here to escape the darkness of the club, only to realize I've walked directly into the heart of the abyss. And this time, there is no "end of the shift."
Tomorrow, I will be a Reynolds. And tomorrow, the man who knows every inch of my shame will be my step-son.