BOUND TO HIS DESIRES

*CHAPTER 1: _The Day I Marked As My Ruin*_

Blair Hollywood sat in front of the mirror, a pool of tears in her eyes. The bulb above her flickered, buzzing like a dying insect. It cast shadows over the cracks in the glass, over the cracks in her face, over the girl she used to be.

Her hands trembled as she held the lipstick. Red. Always red. The color of blood, of sin, of the life she never chose. The color she painted on to hide the shaking.

The room was small. One bed. One mirror. One door that never really felt safe.

Outside, the bass from the club vibrated through the walls. Women laughing. Men shouting. Glasses breaking.

But inside, it was just her. And the memories.

Memories came anyway. They always did on this day. Her birthday. The day she marked as her ruin.

_Flashback_

"Hey Blair! Bella! Come downstairs and blow out your candles. Don’t let the wax ruin the cake," her mom called from downstairs, voice warm and impatient and full of sunlight.

Blair was 9. Her hair was in two puffy ponytails with yellow ribbons. She ran down the stairs holding her twin sister Bella’s hand, both of them barefoot and giggling.

The cake wasn’t huge, but it was perfect. Two tiers. Chocolate with white frosting and 9 pink candles that dripped wax down the sides.

Her father stood behind the camera, his tie loosened, laughing with his whole chest. "One picture before you destroy it, my girls!"

He owned a firm then. _Hollywood & Sons_. Everyone in Dallas knew the name. The black SUV in the driveway. The house in Highland Park with the big garden and the swing set.

Blair made a wish before she blew. _I want us to always be like this. Forever._

She blew. Everyone clapped. Bella immediately stole the biggest slice and got frosting on her nose.

Her mom wiped it off and kissed both their foreheads. "My two miracles."

Three hours later, the phone rang.

By 6pm, her father was locked in his study with his head in his hands. Fraud. Embezzlement. His business partner ran with everything. _Hollywood & Sons_ was gone in one afternoon.

By dinner, the cake tasted like ash. But her mom still smiled and said, "It’s just money, baby. We have each other. That’s what matters."

_End of flashback_

Blair pressed her fingers to her temples until it hurt. Her chest felt tight.

_Flashback_

Two weeks later. Rain. Heavy, angry Texas rain.

Her mom was driving her and Bella to piano lessons in their minivan. Blair had a fever but didn’t want to miss. She loved playing. Loved making her mom proud.

A truck ran a red light on I-35.

Metal screamed. Glass shattered.

The last thing Blair remembered was her mom screaming her name.

When she woke up in Parkland Hospital, Bella was holding her hand too tight. Her small fingers were cold.

"Mommy’s not waking up," Bella whispered.

They died together. Her mom and her twin. On the way to get Blair.

The doctors used words like "terminal injuries" and "we’re sorry."

Blair heard "your fault."

For years she wondered: If she had stayed home that day, would they still be alive?

_End of flashback_

Her father didn’t survive it. Not really.

He lost the firm first. Then he lost his wife and one daughter. So he drowned himself in alcohol.

He came home smelling like whiskey and grief. Missed work. Missed rent. Missed Blair.

He would sit in the dark and talk to pictures. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."

Six months later he remarried. A woman with sharp eyes and a sharper smile. Regina. Lady Victoria’s cousin.

The marriage lasted 2 years.

By then her father’s liver was failing. Then his kidneys. The hospital smelled like antiseptic and defeat.

The medical bills ate what was left of the house.

He died in a county hospital with 3 other men and a TV that wouldn’t turn off. 4 people came to the funeral. None of them were Regina.

Blair was 16. Left alone with Regina and Regina’s daughter, Denise. No brothers. No sons. Just her and the ghost of Bella.

_Flashback_

"Blair, wash the dishes. Again. You missed a spot." Regina’s voice, every single night, sharp enough to cut.

Denise laughing, filming TikToks in what used to be Blair’s room. "Dad’s insurance money is so nice, isn’t it?"

Blair slept on the floor in the laundry room. On a thin mat. With detergent boxes as a pillow. The smell of bleach in her hair.

Her school fees "somehow" never got paid. "We don’t have it, Blair. Be grateful you have a roof."

On Blair’s 17th birthday, Regina ordered takeout for Denise and posted it online. Blair got bread and water in the kitchen, eaten standing up.

When Blair asked about her old photos, Regina said, "Throw that junk away. It’s depressing."

_End of flashback_

When Regina found a new man — a rich businessman in Dallas — she packed fast.

Heels. Bags. Perfume.

She didn’t say goodbye to Blair. Just left a note on the fridge, held down by a magnet: _Take care of yourself. I’m starting a new life._

The man moved them into a big house in the suburbs. For 8 months, Regina played the good wife. Cooked. Smiled.

But Blair saw it. The lipstick on his collar that wasn’t Regina’s. The late-night calls in the bathroom. The way Regina and Denise whispered and laughed in the kitchen.

Then he found out.

He found the messages. The bank transfers. The hotel receipts. The proof that Regina married him for money and was cheating.

He threw them out. One suitcase. 3am. Rain on the pavement. "Get out of my house, you liars. All of you."

On the sidewalk, Regina turned to Blair and hissed, spit flying: "This is your fault. You brought bad luck to this family. Ever since the day you were born."

Nowhere to go. No school fees. No family. The house was foreclosed to pay debts.

A "friend" of Denise’s offered Blair a job. "It’s at a club. Dancing. Easy money. Tips are good. You’re pretty."

Regina nodded like this was normal. "You should take it. You owe us for everything."

That was the night Blair learned what the club really was.

_Flashback_

First night. 17 years old. _Velvet Nights_ in downtown Dallas.

Bright lights. Loud music that made her ribs vibrate. Men staring like she was meat.

Lady Victoria — Regina’s cousin — ran it. She looked Blair up and down. "You’re pretty. You’ll make me money. Dance. Smile. Don’t talk back. Don’t cry."

Blair wasn’t a sex worker. She was a stripper. But the lines blurred fast. Hands on her waist. Dollars stuffed in her bra. Comments about her body that made her skin crawl.

The other girls called her "the new girl" and stole her tips. Victoria fined her $200 if she cried. "Tears don’t pay rent, Blair. Smile or get out."

She learned to go numb. To paint her face and become someone else for 6 hours. To leave Blair Hollywood at the door and become "Red."

_End of flashback_

High school felt like another life. A life that belonged to someone else.

_Flashback_

12th grade at Woodrow Wilson High. A boy in her class. Popular. His dad was a lawyer. He had dimples and always shared his notes.

He passed her a folded note during math: _Will you go out with me? -T_

Blair read it three times. Her hands shook.

She was already working nights. Already ashamed. Already felt dirty and broken.

She couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t explain.

So she rejected him the next day and watched him date someone else 2 weeks later.

She never told anyone his name. Not even Clara.

Sometimes she still wondered what would’ve happened if she said yes.

_End of flashback_

It all came flooding back. Today she was 22.

11 years since a real birthday. 11 years since candles and laughter and "my two miracles."

The guilt was unbearable. A weight on her chest. The feeling that she was the curse that brought her family down.

If she hadn’t been born on that day. If she hadn’t asked for that cake. If she hadn’t gone to piano.

"Blair, are you done?" A voice snapped her out of it. Sharp. Familiar. Cold.

Lady Victoria. Head of the club. Regina’s cousin. The woman who "gave her a job" when no one else would.

Blair wiped her tears fast and started reapplying her ruined makeup. Red lips. Smokey eyes. Contour to cut her face sharper. Armor.

"I’m almost done, my lady," she called back, voice steady. Even though her throat was closing and her heart was pounding.

"Be quick. You have a special client," Victoria replied from the hall. "He paid triple. $3000. He asked for you specifically. Don’t mess this up."

Blair’s stomach twisted into knots. Special client always meant trouble. Rich men. Angry men. Men who wanted to break her just to see if she would.

"Okay, my lady. I’m coming out now."

She closed her makeup kit with a click and hurried out, heels clicking on the dirty floor.

The hallway smelled like cigarettes, cheap perfume, sweat, and bleach.

"Happy birthday, Blair!"

Clara burst in from nowhere, holding a small cake. Just one candle. Store-bought from Walmart. The kind with rainbow sprinkles.

Clara. 22. Dancer. Blair’s best friend. The only person at _Velvet Nights_ who still had a heart.

"Shit, Clara, you scared the hell out of me," Blair exhaled, hand on her chest. Her heart was hammering against her ribs.

"I’ve told you, I don’t celebrate birthdays. I haven’t for 12 years," Blair said, trying to sound tough while holding back tears. Her voice cracked on the last word.

Clara understood. Out of everyone, she knew Blair best. She knew about the cake at 9. About Bella. About the nights Blair woke up screaming in the dressing room.

She knew how much Blair secretly wanted to celebrate, and how fear and guilt kept her from it.

Clara smiled softly and set the cake on the counter. She was still in her stage outfit — black lace and glitter. "Don’t act tough, Blair. I know you. I know you want this. I’m here to give you that wish. Just one candle. For you. From me."

Those words hit something buried deep in Blair. A part of her she thought was dead. The 9-year-old who blew out candles and believed in wishes.

Tears slipped down her face. She couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Blair pulled Clara into a tight hug and sobbed. Ugly, messy sobs she hadn’t allowed in years. The kind that shook her whole body.

"I'm sorry," Blair whispered into Clara's shoulder. "I'm sorry I'm bad luck. I'm sorry I ruined everything."

"Hush," Clara said, rubbing her back in circles. Her glitter got on Blair’s dress. "You’re not a curse, baby. You’re just a girl who’s been hurt too much. You didn’t do anything wrong. We’re gonna get out of here one day, I promise."

"Blair! What the hell? I need you ready. Stop wasting time with that stupid makeup!" Lady Victoria’s voice cut through from the hall like a knife.

Blair jerked back. Panic shot through her.

"I’m sorry. I have to go," Blair whispered, breaking the hug and leaving the half-blown candle behind on the counter.

She found Lady Victoria waiting in the hallway that led to the private rooms. Arms crossed. Eyes like ice. Lipstick too red.

Victoria gave her a withering look, taking in the red eyes, the smudged mascara, the trembling hands.

Blair dropped her eyes and mumbled an apology.

"Save it. If you mess this up, one complaint from this client and you’re done," Victoria warned. "And Blair? Smile. He’s paying for happy. He’s paying triple for _you_."

Before walking away, Victoria leaned in, voice low and cruel: "Don’t go crying on his suit. He hates weak girls. And don’t you dare tell him your real story. Nobody cares about Blair Hollywood."

Blair exhaled shakily before stepping into Room 7.

The room was dark. Only one lamp in the corner. Leather couch. A bottle of whiskey on the table. No windows.

The music from downstairs was muffled here, like it was underwater.

Her clients were usually old men. Fat, impatient, forgettable. Men who threw money and left and never looked her in the eye.

But today was different.

She could feel it before she saw him. The air was colder. Heavier. Like before a storm.

A man stood with his back to her. Tailored black suit. Broad shoulders. No wedding ring.

He didn’t turn around when she entered.

"Close the door," he said. Voice low. Controlled. Dangerous. Familiar in a way that made her skin crawl.

Blair did. Her hands were sweating. Her heart was in her throat.

This wasn’t just the start of another night.

This was the start of her real nightmare.

And maybe... the start of the life she was never meant to escape.

Because when the man finally turned, his eyes met hers, and Blair felt it in her bones:

He knew exactly who she was.

And she had the idea who he was.