I respect my mom a lot. She's my world. But sometimes… sometimes I feel like a burden in hers. She's spent her entire life putting me first—sacrificing her dreams, her comfort, and even her happiness—just so I could have a chance at something better. And what have I given her in return? Nothing. I'm not perfect—not even close. Maybe that's why I've made the decision to do something tonight that I know will hurt her. But for once in my 26 years of living, I want to do something for her—something real.
I paid the cab driver and stepped out, pulling my coat tighter around me. In front of me stood one of the most exclusive clubs in the city, buzzing with life. The parking lot gleamed with luxury cars—Bentleys, Porsches, Lamborghinis—you name it. Definitely a place for the wealthy.
But tonight, I looked like I belonged here.
My short black silk dress hugged my body in all the right places, flowing down like liquid midnight. It matched my Louis Vuitton clutch—one of the only branded items I owned. My black high heels clicked against the pavement as I walked, the only pair of expensive shoes in my closet. I had curled my hair to perfection and painted my face with care. I pulled out my compact mirror to double-check my makeup. Flawless. I looked like one of them—rich, polished, untouchable.
I stepped into the club with my heart pounding, scanning the crowded room for him—this mystery man who had changed everything in just one night. We weren't a couple, not even close. But something about him had wrapped itself around me like smoke—dark, intoxicating, and dangerous.
As I walked further in, someone tapped my shoulder. I turned to see a towering man in a black suit—clearly one of the club's bouncers.
"Hi. Are you Miss Star Lowell Jones?"
"Yes," I said, uncertain.
"Please come with me," he gestured toward a hallway. I hesitated, my instincts on high alert. "Mr. Denzel Wilson is asking for you."
My breath caught.
Denzel Wilson?
It clicked. The company I had applied to just last week—Wilson Corp. I was there for a cleaning job. No qualifications, no degree—just me, willing to work.
And then he showed up.
The man I had met right here at this club. The one who had taken me home with no names, no promises, just a single, unforgettable night. I had no idea who he was then. He told me to call him Daddy, and I did—too lost in the moment to ask questions.
I followed the bouncer through a side exit, nerves bubbling in my stomach. He pointed toward a sleek black car parked in the back.
"He's there," he said before returning to the club.
I took a deep breath and walked over. The door opened as I approached. I slid into the passenger seat, and the scent of leather and expensive cologne immediately overwhelmed my senses.
The man from that night—Denzel—was seated behind the wheel, just as powerful and intimidating as I remembered.
"I thought I gave you money to buy something nice," he said, eyeing my outfit with a raised brow.
"I already had this dress. It's for special occasions," I replied, trying to steady my voice. "I didn't want to waste money on something I didn't need."
He chuckled—a low, amused sound—as he leaned in slightly. "You need to understand something. When you're with me, you match my standards. Always."
"Okay… Denzel."
His smile faded.
"You don't get to call me that."
His voice wasn't loud. It wasn't even particularly deep. But it carried authority—heavy, commanding, terrifying. My heart skipped.
"Am I clear?" he asked.
I turned to look out the window, unsure of how to respond, but before I could speak, he reached over, gently placing a finger under my chin and turning me to face him.
"Am I clear to you, Lowell?" he repeated, slower this time.
"Yes," I whispered.
He leaned back with a satisfied smirk. "Good. By the way—you look stunning."
He started the car, eyes forward as he pulled away from the club. The silence between us grew thick. I watched his profile as he drove—clean-shaven jaw, sharp cheekbones, and those cold, unreadable eyes. He was so damn handsome. But there was something else too—a darkness in him. A kind of control that wasn't just physical, but emotional. Psychological.
I didn't even know where he was taking me. The thought alone made me anxious. But I had to know.
"Where are you taking me?" I finally asked, voice softer than I intended.
He didn't flinch. "To my place."
I stared ahead, trying to keep my hands from shaking.
This wasn't a date. This wasn't a love story.
This was a transaction.
And I had agreed to it.