The lights flickered in the DeLuca townhouse just as thunder cracked overhead, rattling the crystal pendants on the dining room chandelier.
Mara flinched.
Her fingers tightened around the chipped water glass in front of her. Across the polished table, her stepmother’s lipstick-red mouth curled into a slow, knowing smile.
“Jumpier than usual tonight, aren’t you?” Liana drawled, swirling the wine in her glass. “Relax, dear. It’s only a storm.”
Only a storm.
Lightning flashed outside the tall windows, white veins tearing through a charcoal sky. Rain slammed against the glass in gusty waves, blurring the view of the city beyond. Somewhere, a car alarm went off, warbling through the howling wind before dying back down.
Mara swallowed. “I’m fine.”
“You look pale.” Dahlia, her stepsister, smirked and flicked an ash-blonde curl over her shoulder. Her nails—almond-shaped, painted a sharp metallic gold—tapped against her phone as she pretended to scroll. “Maybe she’s worried the roof will collapse on her little attic nest.”
Mara kept her eyes on her plate. Creamy mushroom pasta had cooled and congealed in front of her. She’d been too wound up to eat more than a few bites.
“I said I’m fine,” she repeated, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear.
Liana’s gaze traveled over her, sharp and appraising. That gaze always made Mara feel like she was being priced. Evaluated. Found wanting.
“You could at least put some effort into your appearance when we’re expecting company,” Liana sighed. “God knows you’re no great beauty; the least you could do is sit up straight and brush your hair.”
Mara’s chair creaked as she forced her spine rigid. She smoothed a hand over her simple navy dress—one of three she owned that were decent enough for dinner in the main rooms of the house.
“I didn’t know we were having guests,” she murmured.
Dahlia snorted. “You never know anything.”
Thunder rumbled again, long and low, like the sky was growling. The lights flickered once more but held.
Liana reached for the bottle of wine, topping off her own glass and Dahlia’s. She didn’t bother asking Mara. “They’re not guests, exactly,” she said, examining the label with false nonchalance. “Just…business.”
Mara’s stomach dipped.
Business meant men in too-expensive suits who looked at everything in the house like they owned it—her included. Business meant whispered conversations that stopped when she entered a room. Phones slapped face-down on tables. Laughter that never reached their eyes.
“Should I go upstairs?” Mara asked quietly.
Liana’s smile flicked back to her, too sweet. “No, darling. Actually, I have something special for you tonight.”
Dahlia’s eyes gleamed.
The hair on Mara’s arms prickled. “Special?”
“You’re twenty-two years old,” Liana said, as if reciting a fact she resented. “You’ve lived under my roof, eating my food, benefiting from my late husband’s generosity—”
“My father’s,” Mara said softly.
Liana’s mouth thinned. “—for far too long. It’s time you started pulling your weight. Contributing. Earning your keep.”
“I’ve been interviewing,” Mara reminded her, heat flushing her cheeks. “I’ve had six interviews this month. I’m trying.”
“Trying,” Dahlia echoed with a little laugh. “That’s adorable. Any job offers, stepsis? Any at all?”
Mara pressed her lips together.
The rejections had all blurred together: *we’ve decided to move forward with another candidate*, *we’ll keep your résumé on file*, *you’re overqualified for this position*, *you don’t have enough experience*.
You’re nothing, every email seemed to whisper. You’re just a charity case.
“You’re…limited,” Liana said, plucking an imaginary piece of lint from her silk blouse. “Your father left us comfortable, but he wasn’t a titan of industry. Not like some men. Maintaining this lifestyle costs money. A lot of money. And your little parade of mediocre interviews isn’t exactly inspiring confidence.”
Guilt gnawed at Mara’s ribcage.
She knew the truth: her father hadn’t been wealthy, not really. Middle management at a logistics firm. The house had been mortgaged. The cars leased. What little he’d saved had dwindled over the six years since the heart attack that had dropped him in their driveway, leaving her sixteen and lost.
Liana had sold his watch within weeks.
“I’ll keep trying,” Mara said, fingers tightening around her glass. “Something will come through.”
“Oh, I’m sure *something* will,” Liana purred. “In fact, tonight, I’ve arranged an opportunity for you.”
Dahlia burst out laughing. She covered it with a cough when Liana shot her a look, but her eyes danced.
An uneasy chill slithered down Mara’s spine. “What…kind of opportunity?”
“A job.” Liana’s tone was bright, almost false, like a sales pitch. “Temporary, but lucrative. Enough to show a little gratitude to the woman who’s basically been your mother.”
“You’re not—” The protest slipped out before Mara could swallow it.
Liana’s gaze sharpened to ice. “What?”
Mara’s throat went dry. “I just mean…my mother was my mother.” Dead for ten years now. A warm laugh and calloused hands and secondhand paperbacks. A hospital bed that smelled like bleach and hopelessness. “I appreciate that you took us in when she—when my father…”
Her stepmother smiled, slow and cruel. “You appreciate it? Really? You have a funny way of showing it.”
Dahlia leaned back in her chair, crossing one tanned leg over the other. The slit in her dress slid up her thigh. “Mom, don’t upset her. She might cry into the pasta again. It’s already gross.”
Mara’s appetite vanished entirely.
“What kind of job?” she asked, voice steady despite the cold knot forming in her gut.
Liana set her wineglass down with deliberate precision. “There’s a gentleman at the Ritz Carlton downtown. A…business associate. He needs company tonight.”
The room tilted.
“Company,” Mara repeated, the word tasting wrong in her mouth. “Like…a hostess? An assistant?”
Dahlia laughed again, a sharp, delighted sound. “Oh my God, you’re *so* naive.”
Liana ignored her. “You’ll go to his room. You’ll be sweet. You’ll be agreeable. You’ll do what he asks and keep your mouth shut. In return, he’ll transfer five thousand dollars into my account.”
Mara stared at her. The words made sense, but her brain rejected them.
“That’s—no.” She shook her head, her ponytail brushing her neck. “Absolutely not. I’m not…I won’t do that.”
Liana’s smile vanished.
Lightning flash. Thunder slam.
“‘That’?” she repeated softly. “Clarify, Mara. What, exactly, will you not do?”
Mara’s heart hammered against her ribs. “I’m not a prostitute.”
Dahlia wheezed. “Oh, this is *hilarious*.”
Liana’s expression hardened, all softness stripped away. “You’re an ungrateful little freeloader with no degree, no skills, and no prospects,” she said, voice like steel. “You have lived off my husband’s name and my goodwill for six years. You have eaten my food, used my electricity, slept in a room in my house—”
“In the attic,” Mara whispered.
“—and what have you given in return?” Liana continued, eyes blazing. “Nothing. You can’t even attract a decent man. You’re a burden.”
Mara’s vision blurred.
“I cook,” she said quietly. “I clean. I—”
“We have staff,” Dahlia said flatly. “You bake sad little muffins, Mara. That’s not a contribution. That’s a hobby.”
Liana leaned forward. “You want to be independent?” she asked. “You want to earn your own money? Well, this is how the world works. Men pay for what they want. And I found you a man who is willing to pay top dollar for one night. Just one. You smile, you close your eyes, it’s over before you know it. Five thousand, wired to me by morning.”
“To *you*?” Mara echoed.
Liana arched a brow. “Rent. Utilities. Food. Do you think any of that is free?”
The room felt too small. The storm pressed against the windows like a living thing.
“I won’t do it,” Mara said, shaking now. “You can’t make me.”
Dahlia rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. She’s getting all virtuous now. Where was this energy when you were crying about not being able to afford application fees?”
“Dahlia,” Liana warned, though her lips twitched.
Mara pushed back her chair. The legs scraped against marble. “I’m going upstairs.”
“You’ll do as I say,” Liana snapped.
Thunder boomed. The lights flickered and went out.
Darkness swallowed the dining room, broken only by the dim gray wash of storm light through the windows.
“Mara.” Liana’s voice floated through the dark, silken and lethal. “Sit down.”
“No.” Her heart pounded in her ears. She backed away from the table, groping for the doorway. “I’m not—”
A hand clamped around her wrist in the dark. Long nails bit into her skin.
“Don’t be stupid,” Liana hissed in her ear. Her breath smelled like expensive wine and something sour beneath it. “Do you want to end up on the street? Because I *will* throw you out, Mara. I should have done it the day your father died, but I was sentimental. I thought, *poor little orphan*. I thought, *I’ll be kind*.” Her nails dug in deeper. “You’ve repaid that by moping and eating and taking up space. No more.”
Tears burned Mara’s eyes.
“You need me,” she whispered.
“I don’t,” Liana said calmly. “Not at all. You have nothing. I have everything. Let me be crystal clear: you will go to that hotel tonight. You will be pleasant to my associate. You will do what needs to be done. Or tomorrow morning, you will find your suitcase on the front lawn in the rain.”
A match flared. Dahlia’s face appeared, lit orange for a second as she lit a candle. Her eyes glittered with enjoyment.
“You’re so dramatic, Mom,” she said lightly. “But she should probably listen.”
Mara swallowed against panic.
“Why me?” she whispered. “Why don’t you send—”
“Me?” Dahlia laughed. “God, no. *I* have standards.”
Liana released her wrist. “You’ll shower,” she said briskly. “I’ve laid out a dress for you on your bed. You’ll be at the Ritz by nine. Room 2403. Do. Not. Mess. This. Up.”
Mara’s mind raced. “What’s his name?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Liana said.
The skin between Mara’s shoulder blades crawled.
“I won’t do it,” she whispered again, but it sounded weaker now, even to her own ears.
“You will,” Liana said. “You know why? Because you’re a coward, Mara. You never fight for yourself. You never run. You just…endure. It’s your one talent.” She smiled. “Use it.”
Dahlia held up her phone. “And if you *do* run,” she chimed in, “I have those photos you really, really wouldn’t want people to see.”
Mara’s head snapped toward her. “What photos?”
Dahlia’s smile turned sharp. “Remember last Christmas? When you got drunk on half a glass of champagne and fell asleep on the couch? You drool when you sleep, by the way. It’s disgusting. Anyway, phone cameras are great these days. One mass send and your sad little dignity is gone.”
Liana sighed, annoyed. “Dahlia, honestly. That’s so juvenile.”
“But effective,” Dahlia sang.
Mara’s legs went weak.
“Shower,” Liana repeated. “Dress. I’ll call a car. And Mara?”
She forced herself to look her stepmother in the eye.
“Don’t bother with underwear,” Liana said, taking a slow sip of her wine. “He won’t need the delay.”
***
The water in the attic bathroom was lukewarm at best. It rattled in old pipes and sputtered once before stabilizing.
Mara stood under the spray, hugging herself.
She scrubbed harder than necessary, as if she could wash off her stepmother’s words. Her skin turned pink. Her thoughts buzzed with panicked static, unable to fully grasp the shape of what was happening.
They wouldn’t really throw me out.
They would.
I can’t do this.
You don’t have a choice.
Steam fogged the cracked mirror. When she stepped out and wiped it with a towel, her reflection stared back at her: oval face, dark eyes, a scattering of freckles across her nose. Too-thin shoulders. Hips a little too round for the rest of her frame.
“Limited,” she whispered to herself, hearing Liana’s voice.
Her chest tightened.
On the narrow bed in her attic room, someone had laid out a dress. Red. Shorter than anything she usually wore, with thin straps and a low neckline. A pair of heels sat beside it, glittering faintly even in the dim light.
Mara wrapped the towel tighter around herself, staring.
*You can say no,* a small voice inside her insisted. *You can pack a bag. You can leave. There are shelters. Couch-surfing. Something. Anything.*
But the thought of the street, of sleeping in bus stations or on some stranger’s couch, of being truly alone in a city that swallowed people whole—
Her knees almost buckled.
She thought of her father’s face. The way he’d smiled at her at her high school graduation, pride and exhaustion in his eyes. The way he’d gripped her shoulder and said, “Just a few more years, kiddo, and you’ll be off to university. You’ll have everything I never did.”
University hadn’t happened.
Not with medical bills and funeral costs and a stepmother who’d suddenly discovered a taste for imported wine.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the empty room.
She dressed slowly, like a woman walking toward an execution.
The red dress clung more than it skimmed. The neckline plunged lower when she moved, exposing a strip of skin between her breasts. Her nipples went tight in the cool air, visible. She grabbed the one bra she owned with some padding and pulled it on, then yanked the dress up again.
No underwear.
Her face burned.
She twisted her hair up into a messy knot, then pulled it down again. Left it loose over her shoulders instead. She had no makeup beyond a dried-out tube of mascara and a lip balm. She used both, hands shaking.
A soft chime from her phone made her jump. A text from an unknown number:
> The car is outside.
Of course Liana wouldn’t have sent it from her own phone.
Mara slipped a cardigan over the dress, even though Liana had told her not to. She jammed her feet into the heels, wobbling a little—they were half a size too big. A leftover pair of Dahlia’s, no doubt.
At the attic door, she hesitated.
“You can say no,” she whispered again, but her hand was already on the knob.
The hallway was dark, the storm still raging outside. The house was quiet; Liana and Dahlia had retreated to the sitting room, murmurs of their voices drifting up the stairs.
Mara crept down, every creak of the old wood loud in her ears, and slipped out the front door.
Rain slapped her immediately. The wind grabbed at her cardigan, at the hem of her dress. She wrapped her arms around herself and hurried down the steps.
A black sedan idled at the curb. The driver, a stocky man with a shaved head, rolled down the window.
“Mara DeLuca?” he called.
She nodded, throat too tight to speak.
He got out and opened the back door. “Get in. We’re behind schedule.”
She slid into the leather interior, the smell of air freshener and something chemical hitting her. The door shut with a solid thunk.
As they pulled away from the house, she looked back once.
Silhouetted against the upstairs window, she could just make out two figures watching. One tall, one slim. Both utterly still.
Thunder cracked again, loud enough to make her flinch.
The car cut through sheets of rain, wipers squeaking across the windshield. The city blurred past in smeared neon and shadow.
Mara pressed her knees together, trying to stop their trembling.
“You okay back there?” the driver asked at one point, eyes on the road.
“Yes,” she lied.
He grunted. “Never seen a storm like this in June. Streets are gonna flood if it keeps up.”
She stared at her reflection in the window. Hollow eyes. Pale skin. Red dress like a slash of blood.
“You do this a lot?” she asked quietly.
He glanced at her in the rearview. “Do what?”
“Drive…women. To hotels.”
He shrugged. “I drive who I’m told, where I’m told. I don’t ask questions. Neither should you.”
Her stomach rolled.
The downtown skyline emerged through the rain, glass towers spearing into the angry sky. The Ritz Carlton loomed ahead, all sleek lines and golden light behind tinted windows.
Her heart hammered so hard it hurt.
The driver pulled up under the porte cochère. Bellhops in dark uniforms darted back and forth under the awning, shielding guests with umbrellas.
He put the car in park and twisted in his seat to look at her. “Room 2403,” he said. “You remember that?”
She nodded.
He hesitated. Something like pity flitted across his features and disappeared. “Just…do what you gotta do, kid,” he muttered. “World doesn’t care either way.”
That didn’t help.
She stepped out into the bright, artificial warmth of the hotel entrance. The marble gleamed. Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls.
She felt like a stain.
“Miss?” A concierge approached, smiling professionally. His eyes flicked over her damp cardigan, her bare legs, her too-big heels. “Can I assist you?”
“I, um…” Her mouth was dry. “Room 2403. Please.”
“Of course.” He gestured toward the bank of elevators. “Those will take you to the twenty-fourth floor. Room will be on your right.”
She crossed the lobby on shaky legs, acutely aware of every glance. She imagined they could all see it on her: what she was here to do. What she’d agreed—no, *been coerced*—into.
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft hiss. As it rose, she watched the floor numbers climb: 10, 11, 12. Her breath came short and fast.
You can get out. You can press L, go back down, walk out into the rain, never come back.
And then what?
24.
The elevator chimed. The doors opened into a hushed, carpeted hallway lined with tasteful art.
Room 2403 was halfway down.
Her heels sank into the plush carpet as she walked. Her heart thudded in her ears. The card key Liana had pressed into her hand downstairs felt like it was burning her palm.
At the door, she froze.
The hallway was empty. The storm was a muted roar through thick glass.
You can leave.
Her hand shook as she slid the card into the slot.
A green light flashed. The lock clicked.
She turned the handle.
***
The suite was dim, the only light coming from the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Rain streaked down the glass, distorting the view of the skyscrapers, their lights shimmering in the downpour.
Mara stepped inside, her heels sinking into the thick rug.
“Hello?” she called softly.
No answer.
The door snicked shut behind her.
The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne and something else—whiskey, maybe. A bottle sat on the coffee table, half-empty beside two tumblers. One held a smear of amber liquid.
Her pulse skittered.
“Mr.—” She faltered, not knowing what name to use. “Sir? I’m…Mara.”
Silence.
Maybe he isn’t here yet.
Maybe I can leave.
A shape shifted on the bed.
Her head snapped toward it.
The bedroom was darker, but she could make out the outline of a man sprawled on the huge, white-covered mattress. One arm flung over his face. The blankets half-kicked off, revealing a bare torso. Broad shoulders. Powerful chest. A trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of low-slung pants.
Her breath caught.
He looked…young. Younger than she’d expected. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Not the leering, middle-aged caricature she’d been bracing for.
He groaned, low and hoarse, and shifted again, one hand groping blindly for the other side of the bed. “Sam?” he slurred. “You back?”
Mara froze.
His voice was roughened with drink, but beneath it was…steel. Authority. The kind of voice that gave orders and expected them to be followed.
“I—I’m not Sam,” she said, barely above a whisper.
He stilled.
For a moment, the storm seemed to hold its breath.
Then he lowered his arm and blinked toward her.
In the low light, she couldn’t make out his features clearly, just the cut of a strong jaw, the shadow of stubble, the glint of eyes that seemed darker than the room around them.
“Who are you?” he rasped.
Her throat closed.
*Mara. I’m Mara. I shouldn’t be here. This is a mistake.*
Lightning flashed, throwing his face into sharp relief for a split second.
He was…beautiful. Not in the pretty, polished way of the men Dahlia dated, but in a harsh, carved-from-stone way. High cheekbones. A faint scar along one brow. Mouth full and unsmiling.
The light was gone again in an instant, plunging them back into shadow.
“Bathroom,” she lied, the word tumbling out on a panicked breath. “I just—Liana said—” Her vision swam. “I need the bathroom.”
His brows drew together. “Liana?”
She stumbled toward what she hoped was the en suite door, her hand catching on the edge of a sleek dresser. The room tilted. Her knees wobbled.
A strange, fuzzy warmth was stealing through her, starting at her fingertips and rolling up her arms like tidewater. Her pulse, which had been rabbit-fast, started to thud more slowly. Heavily.
No.
Her thoughts scattered like leaves in wind.
She’d had nothing to drink. Just water at dinner. The pasta.
*The pasta.*
They wouldn’t.
Her fingers scrabbled at the smooth wood of the doorframe. She could hear her own breathing, shallow and strange.
Behind her, the springs on the bed creaked as the man sat up. “Hey,” he said, the edge of command sharpening his tone. “Hey. Are you okay?”
She tried to answer. The words slurred. “I…I think…something’s wrong.”
The floor rolled beneath her feet.
Strong arms caught her just as her legs gave out.
She sagged against a hard chest, cheek scraping stubble, her vision going gray at the edges.
“Shit,” the man muttered, closer now. His scent—warm skin and whiskey and some dark cologne—wrapped around her. “Hey. Stay with me. What the hell did you take?”
“I didn’t…” The room spun gently. Gentle. Like a lullaby. “Doesn’t…matter.”
It did matter. It mattered more than anything.
But the drug—whatever it was—dragged at her, thick and irresistible.
She felt herself being lifted, carried. The cool slide of sheets under her. A calloused hand brushing damp hair from her face.
“Look at me,” he ordered. “Come on. Open your eyes.”
She tried. For a second, his face swam into view above her. Those dark eyes, wide now, worried. A furrow between his brows.
“You’re…pretty,” she heard herself murmur, distant and not entirely there. Mortification flickered and was gone in the haze.
He huffed a laugh. “You’re in no shape to be saying that.”
His thumb stroked her cheek once, a strangely tender touch.
“You’re safe,” he said quietly. “Okay? You’re safe.”
Her last coherent thought, just before the darkness pulled her under, was an odd, piercing certainty that *this* was the wrong room.
Then there was nothing.
***