Some days later, in another club, Linda pushed a trolley of bottles down the dimly lit hallway. With one hand, she unfastened the top button of her uniform shirt. As she approached, the bodyguard opened the VIP door to let her enter.
Inside, Jerry sat on the sofa, a smartphone in hand. In his early forties, his features carried an initial air of gentleness. His attention lifted and landed on Linda: her hair bobbed in a sleek black cut, her figure slender, her chest proportionate. She adopted a professional smile as she crossed to his table.
His gaze watched her, Linda met his eyes—warm and showing clear interest. He looked experienced. She could work with that.
She set the drink down, letting him take in the view of her chest exposed cleavage.
"Do you need anything else, sir?" she asked, her tone crisp and professional as she stood straight. Her white blouse and black skirt, hemmed well above the knee, signaled otherwise.
He didn't answer right away. His eyes played over her, lazy and appraising.
Linda took the initiative. "No, I don't," his voice rang out clear, a lazy look in his eye. Looking at Linda, he pegged her instantly.
"If you don't need anything, sir, I'll take my leave." Her tone shifted, becoming sultry and deliberate.
Jerry's lips curved a little. He could tell she was flirting—seducing him.
"You should have a seat," he said. His warm eyes and low tone commanded her attention.
She complied, sliding onto the sofa beside him. Inwardly, she was already measuring him. He looked nice, gentle—the kind of man who might apologize if someone accidentally stepped on his foot. An easy target. The kind she could have a brief fling with and walk away from without wrecking either of them.
He smelled of burning tobacco, but not the cheap, acrid kind that clung to bar floors. This was strong, heady, and rich—dark cherry and leather with an expensive burn. The scent hit her all at once, curling into her lungs, intoxicating. She didn't mind it; if anything, she liked the fraction of it wrapping around her like smoke.
Jerry watched her, thinking she looked like a woman trying too hard to climb onto him. He picked up his drink and held it out to her.
Linda took it, surprised, a small flicker of triumph in her chest. She brought the cup to her lips—and Jerry tipped it.
The liquor hit her chest in a cold splash soaking her shirt. Linda jerked back, stunned. She looked up at him.
His eyes—gentle, dark—now held a flicker of cold detachment she hadn't noticed before, as if it had always been there. His presence filled the room, indifferent and dominating. It intimidated her, and it annoyed her. How dare he pour the very drink he had offered?
She set the cup down, forcing herself to act as though the spill hadn't bothered her.
"Come closer," he said. His voice held a command that sparked a flash of annoyance in Linda, but she complied, sliding closer as Jerry shifted toward her. His hand found her thigh while he leaned in, his mouth trailing down to her collarbone where the liquor had run. His hand slid higher, pushing up under her skirt.
Linda felt a thrill. She wanted to be swept away by the pleasure. But when she met his eyes, there was nothing in them—no care, no heat, just a flat indifference that made her feel small. Yet, she pushed the feeling aside.
Jerry remained unreadable as his hand slipped inside her shirt to cup her breast. He thought about tearing her shirt, but changed his mind. Calculating and clinical, his touch inside her was completely practiced and impersonal as he slid his fingers into her.
She thought she could bring him under her thumb, but this man was beyond control. He slipped his fingers deeper into her panties, pumping with a rhythmic detachment. Linda exhaled a ragged moan, jerking her head backward against the couch. He was entirely unpredictable.
Hearing the moans escape her lips, a sudden wave of annoyance hit him. He wanted to enter her fully. Stopping abruptly, he cupped her breast, enjoying the feel of it without bothering to bring her to full pleasure. Linda wanted him to continue, but he pulled back only to remove her skirt entirely.
Her eyes remained fixed on him, unsettled by his refusal to grant her any real satisfaction. She could read the sheer indifference in his eyes. With practiced efficiency, he removed her panties—which she readily accepted, eager for him to finish his business—and unfastened his trousers.
Nuzzling his nose against her chest, he nipped at her exposed breasts through the wide-open folds of her shirt. Towering over her, he slid inside her. Yet, the intimacy felt hollow; his dominating presence made her feel like nothing more than an object, stripped of her personhood.
Later, she buttoned her shirt with shaking fingers. Jerry pulled cash from his trouser pocket and handed it over. She counted it—the amount was decent, but she felt a heavy sting of disappointment, realizing any hope of a genuine connection with this wealthy man was gone.
Jerry sat back, sipping his drink, entirely unaffected. For him, it had meant nothing. For her, the encounter had left a sad mark.
"Did you enjoy it?" Linda asked, trying to sound light, desperate not to completely lose a man of wealth. Maybe a show of friendliness would buy her another chance.
Jerry's expression hardened, his eyes distant. "Leave."
The word was harsh, stern. Her mood plummeted.
So mean, she thought as she stood up and walked away.
Jerry watched her go, taking another sip of his drink. Why would a whore like her ask that? She already knew the answer.
Outside, Linda felt the sting burn deep. She shouldn't have asked. He was the kind of man who would use her solely for his own pleasure and discard her without a second thought. Even now, she could still feel the lingering echo of how he had moved inside her—cold, indifferent, and dominating, treating her as if she were nothing at all.
It was an active morning at the company. Silas sat on his leather-furnished couch, legs crossed, a thick stack of documents resting in his lap. He scanned them unhurriedly. He came to the office when he pleased—not because he had to, but because he could. He didn't have much to do, and he liked it that way.