Chapter 1. Micah.
America. New York City.
"Why the hell would you call a redhead like me a witch?" I glared at the wrinkled old bastard sitting on the VIP leather sofa. "I already told your broker—I don’t fuck grandpas."
I turned on my heel and stormed out of the private suite, slamming the heavy door behind me.
"Yo! Micah, wait up!" Ricky shouted, jogging to keep up as the heavy, bass-boosted rap music of the main club floor roared out with the red neon lights stained the crowded hallways, casting long, sweating shadows over the dancing bodies.
I didn't slow down. "Don't tell me you told Friday you love her again," I said, navigating through the sea of moving shoulders and clinking glasses.
"You’re the reason Friday won't say it back to me," Ricky complained, keeping pace.
I stopped dead in my tracks, turning to look him dead in the eye. "Her life isn't some boring-ass romance novel, Ricky. Just keep fucking her and keep your mouth shut. Your relationship will run a hell of a lot smoother if you cut out the 'love' bullshit." I rolled my eyes, snatching the designer purse he was holding for me. "Do you even know what love is? It sounds like a disease."
I unzipped the bag, checking the stash. "You know who to hand the packages to on the floor. Don't mess it up."
Without waiting for his answer, I walked away, heading toward the secondary lounge. This room was quieter, darker, and smelled of expensive cologne and spilled champagne. Naked bodies spun slowly on the brass poles under dim blue spotlights. High-rollers laughed, letting girls who used to do what I did slide onto their laps.
"Micah," a low voice called.
Adam stepped into my path. I let a genuine, lazy smile touch my lips as he closed the distance, his hand sliding familiarly down to my waist, then lower to cup my rear. We kissed—brief, tasting of expensive gin and mints.
"Hi," I murmured, looking up at him through my artificial eyelashes.
I’m Micah Taylor. Red hair, sharp tongue, and a past that would break most girls.
My father calls himself my "manager." That’s just his polite, white-collar term for a pimp. He’s been selling me to the highest bidder since I was twenty, using me to pay off his debts and fund his lifestyle. It started after one of his wealthy associates took what he wanted from me, one night.
I broke beyond repair still, but I learned exactly how transactional the world really is.
I used the hush money to buy the kind of designer clothes, shoes, and jewelry that made other girls jealous. An armor of luxury. But when my mother found out what her husband had let happen to me, she ended up crashing her car in a blind panic on her way to find me. A mommet I’d never forget in my entire life.
The accident left her in a coma. We needed an immediate, large sum of money for her brain surgeries. There was only one source; my father's wealthy "friends."
So, I traded my body to keep her heart beating.
"They’re waiting for you," Adam whispered, his thumb caressing my hip. His calm blue eyes looked almost purple under the club's neon glare.
"I was supposed to be negotiating with my client for the night," I sighed, leaning against him. "But the guy was ancient. I swear, how is he not dead yet?"
"Did he agree to the price, or is he going to demand a refund from your dad?"
"Who cares," I muttered, rolling my eyes.
Adam had been a client of mine a year ago, but we’d shifted into something else. He was the one who introduced me to the drug trade, giving me an escape route. Thanks to him, I barely had to sleep around anymore, unless the bid was too massive for my father to ignore. Now, I mostly moved premium weight through the VIP lounges, and Adam and I kept things simple as friends with benefits.
"I need to work," I said, kissing his cheek before sliding out of his grip.
I walked toward the booth where four wealthy suits were waiting, their eyes already glazed over from alcohol and the strippers dancing near their table. Slow, sensual music filled the room, making the air feel thick and heavy.
"Hello, gentlemen," I purred. My voice was low, laced with the kind of practiced, effortless seduction that made men sit up straight. My hourglass frame and a slow, knowing smile did most of the work.
I slid onto the wide arm of the couch right next to the leader, trailing my fingernails lightly down his jawline. "Don't you think you need something to really get this party started?"
"Just show me what you brought," the man muttered, his eyes dark as his hand squeezed the thigh of the girl sitting on his lap.
"As you wish."
I opened my clutch, pulling out several small, heat-sealed packets of uncut powder. I grabbed a clean glass plate from the table, tearing the packets open and pouring the white lines out.
"Make it four," one of the other men demanded, tossing a stack of bills onto the table.
I prepped the plate smoothly, laying out clean straws. "That'll be ten grand for the premium batch," I said, sliding the plate toward the first man. He didn't hesitate, leaning down to take a hard drag.
"You, pay the lady," the man muttered, his head snapping back as the rush hit his system.
"Pleasure doing business," I smiled, stepping back to let the bodyguard count out the thick stack of hundreds into my hand.
An hour later, Adam’s sports car pulled up to the curb in front of my father's house. I stared at the dark, quiet house, a cold knot forming in my stomach.
"Have you given it any more thought?" Adam asked, turning down the radio. "About expanding the business?"
"Maybe," I murmured, keeping my eyes on the dashboard.
"I’m moving to Sicily next month, Micah. This is your chance to make enough cash to finally get out from under his thumb." He reached over, turning my chin to face him. "Are you scared of him?"
"No," I lied, forcing a sharp, confident smile. "I'm not scared of anyone."
"Come on. You can't keep feeding his greed forever. It's time to take your fucking freedom."
"I’ll think about it," I promised, leaning in to let him kiss my neck. "I'll see you tomorrow at the club."
"Don't keep me waiting," he murmured.
I got out of the car, watching his taillights disappear down the street before turning toward the front door. I took a deep, steadying breath, braced myself, and stepped inside.
The house was quiet, except for the low, gravelly voice coming from the study.
"Yes, of course. I'll have her on a flight immediately," my father, Arthur Taylor, was saying into his phone.
I walked into the living room and threw my purse onto the counter. My father walked out of the study a moment later, his face contorted in an angry scowl. "What the hell did you do to Mr. Sterling tonight?"
"He's eighty, Arthur," I snapped, refusing to call him dad.
"We are after the money, Micah! Young, old, attractive, ugly—it doesn't matter. You don't walk out on a client!" he snarled, stepping into my space.
"Really?" I bared my teeth, giving him a deadly stare. "Then maybe I should start fucking you instead. At least then I’d get a fair split of the profit."
He scoffed, but his eyes turned cold and cruel. "Should I remind you who pays the bills to keep your mother on life support?"
The words hit me like a physical blow. I gripped the edge of the sofa, my knuckles turning white. He knew exactly where to twist the knife.
"Should I remind you that she is in that hospital bed because of your choices?" He whispered. "If you want her doctors paid, you do what I tell you to do. Do you understand me?"
I closed my eyes, swallowing the bitter taste of defeat. I would never escape that. Eveeything—all of this had been my fault!
“Yes," I whispered. "I understand."
"Good. Because you won't have the chance to make another mistake in New York." He crossed his arms, a smug, satisfied grin spreading across his face. "Pack your bags. You're flying to Sicily first thing tomorrow morning."
