New York City – Midnight

The heels were too tight.

The sequined dress itched.

The music was loud.

But none of it mattered. Jessica Whitaker had learned long ago that pain meant nothing when you were property.

She stood beneath the golden chandeliers of Damon Archer's underground club, bathed in violet light and false admiration. Men whispered. Women glared. And somewhere behind the curtain of cigar smoke and piano jazz, a deal was being made, one that would cost someone their soul. Maybe even hers.

Jessica's reflection in the bar mirror was a cruel joke. Dark hair curled over her bare shoulders, thick lashes coated her eyes in smoky defiance, lips painted blood-red. A masterpiece of seduction. A lie in stilettos.

No one saw the girl beneath the paint.

Not anymore.

"Smile," came the voice from behind her, sharp and commanding just ss always.

Jessica didn't turn. She didn't need to. Damon Archer's voice was impossible to mistake. Cold. Controlled. Coiled like a viper ready to strike.

She forced a curve to her lips. "That better?"

His fingers curled around her arm, grip tight enough to bruise. "Better. Now go to Table Twelve. The Saudi investor wants a private conversation. Make him like you. Not too much. Just enough."

Her stomach twisted. Another night. Another game. Another man with too much money and no respect for boundaries.

"I'm not a toy," she muttered.

Damon leaned in, his breath laced with whiskey and something darker. "No, sweetheart. You're a doll. And dolls don't talk back."

Her forest green eyes burned as she turned and walked away, each step a silent rebellion.

Table Twelve was surrounded by shadows and power. She knew the type: foreign investors, cartel contacts, billionaires who played by their own rules. But tonight, something was different.

Someone new was watching.

He sat at the edge of the room, untouched by the chaos, a crystal glass of scotch in his hand. His presence commanded silence. Tall, tailored in black, with blue eyes like cracked ice and a face carved from control.

Jessica felt it instantly.

it wasnt something usual shes been in club lobg enough to notuce different people, to notice people who dud mire than just fit it, who did more than just to look, he obsevered, slowly but he did and it was beginning to worry her a little, he looked not just at her body and trust me thats what all men who waste their wealth here do, he obsevered her inner self, her rebellion yet mixed with care and fear.

Their eyes met.

Time stilled.

She looked away first. She had to.

"Who's that?" she asked the nearest server, feigning casual interest.

The girl whispered, "Javier Fernando. Billionaire. Cold as hell. Doesn't usually show up at clubs like this."

Jessica's pulse spiked. She'd heard the name. Everyone had. CEO of the Fernando Conglomerate. A man who bought businesses and destroyed reputations before breakfast. Ruthless. Untouchable.

Why was he here?

Before she could retreat, a hand closed over her wrist. Damon again.

"He's watching you," he said low, jealous fire flaring behind his eyes. "Good. Let him. But remember, you belong to me."

Jessica wanted to scream, but she just smiled that perfect doll's smile.

Damon shoved her gently toward Javier's table. "Introduce yourself. Maybe Mr. Fernando wants to buy more than real estate."

Her legs moved, but her heart stayed behind. Every step toward Javier felt like walking toward a storm.

As she approached, he looked up. Slowly. Intentionally. Like a man used to being approached, never chasing. But there was something in his gaze she didn't expect.

Curiosity.

"Mr. Fernando," she said softly. "Would you like some company?"

He didn't answer. Not right away. He studied her, slowly for a while, really studied her.

Not her dress. Not her curves. Her.

Finally, he spoke. "What's your real name?"

Jessica blinked.

"No one asks that," she said.

"I'm not no one."

Their eyes locked again.

She should have turned and walked away.

She didn't.

Not when something in his gaze whispered: I see you.

Not when, for the first time in years, her heart skipped a beat for a reason that wasn't fear.

Javier Fernando wasn't the kind of man you stumbled across.

He arrived.

Unannounced. Unbothered. Unapologetic.

He stood at six feet tall, the kind of height that didn't need exaggeration he didn't need to tower over others to dominate them. His presence alone was enough. The room shifted when he walked in shoulders straight, suit sharp enough to cut, the scent of expensive cologne and danger trailing behind him like smoke. Everything about him said control. Precision. Power.

His hair, a dark, unruly brown, often slicked back with the same carelessness that marked his lifestyle refined but ruthless. And then there were his eyes. Icy blue. Cold enough to freeze you in place, yet sharp enough to see through your lies, your weaknesses, your soul. He didn't just look at you he dissected you, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but the truth you tried to hide.

People whispered about him behind his back. Some feared him, others envied him. But no one ignored him. He was the kind of man who made billion-dollar deals with a glance and buried empires with a smile. The tabloids called him a playboy. The boardrooms called him a genius. The streets called him untouchable.

But Jessica saw something else.

Beneath the designer suits, beneath the reputation and the razor-sharp words, there was a silence in him a haunted quiet. A man who didn't believe in love because he'd never known it. A man who could ruin you or rescue you, and sometimes without meaning to do both at once.

Javier Fernando didn't chase. He didn't beg.

He claimed.

And when he looked at Jessica, for the first time in years, he didn't see a conquest.

He saw a mirror. Cracked, bleeding... but alive.

And that terrified him more than any enemy ever could.