The Miami skyline glittered like a fever dream, all neon and glass cutting through the humid night. Aria adjusted her thrift-store heels, nerves buzzing as she stepped into the elevator of Black Tower. She'd scored an invite to Damien Black's exclusive bash—crypto billionaire, rumored playboy, the kind of man who could ruin you with a smirk. Her Insta was starving for content; one viral post here could flip her life.
The penthouse doors slid open, and the vibe hit like a shot of Patrón. Low beats pulsed from hidden speakers, bodies swayed under LED chandeliers, and champagne flutes clinked like secrets being spilled. Aria's knockoff dress felt like a neon sign screaming outsider, but she squared her shoulders, channeling every influencer hustle she'd ever faked.
Damien appeared like he owned the air itself, tall, all sharp jaw and black eyes, his tailored suit screaming money. "Aria, right?" His voice was velvet, but the edge in it made her thighs clench. "You're late."
"Traffic," she lied, flashing a grin. "Worth it for this view."
He didn't smile back, just tilted his head, scanning her like code he was about to rewrite. "Follow me. You'll like the real party."
She trailed him through a maze of glass walls, past couples whispering in corners, their touches too bold for public. Her pulse hammered, half thrill, half warning. Damien led her to a private lounge, all plush leather and dim violet light. A single chair sat center, like a throne for sins.
"Sit," he said, not asking. Aria hesitated, then perched, her dress riding up. His gaze lingered, unapologetic. "You want the spotlight, don't you? Fame, followers, the whole game?"
She nodded, throat dry. "Who doesn't?"
"Then let's play a different one." He stepped closer, a silk tie dangling from his hand like a promise. "Rules are simple: you trust me, you win. You don't…" He let it hang, the air thick with what he didn't say.
Aria's breath hitched. She'd heard whispers about Damien's "private games" kinky, exclusive, the kind of thing that'd get you canceled or worshipped. Her brain screamed run, but her body? Already leaning in.
"Trust you how?" she asked, voice barely steady.
He knelt, close enough she could smell his cologne, sandalwood, smoke, danger. "Give me your hands."
Her wrists crossed before she could overthink it. The silk bit soft as he tied them, tight enough to sting. Her heart slammed against her ribs, heat pooling low. This wasn't just a party trick, this was a line, and she was crossing it.
"Good girl," he murmured, and damn if that didn't spark something feral in her. He stood, circling like a predator savoring prey. "You've been chasing likes, Aria. Empty. You want real power? It starts here."
Her laugh came out shaky. "What, tied up in your sex dungeon?"
His hand grazed her cheek, firm, not gentle. "Call it what you want. But you're not leaving until you learn."
The first smack landed on her thigh, sharp, through the dress, electric. She gasped, more shock than pain, but the second hit harder, bare skin now, his palm leaving a warm print. Her mind spun, outrage, arousal, all blurring into one. "You can't just..."
"I can," he cut in, voice low. "And you'll beg for more."
Another strike, then another, each one pulling a sound from her she didn't recognize. The room felt smaller, hotter, the city lights a distant blur. Damien's control was a drug, and she was already hooked. But then—footsteps. A shadow in the doorway. Another figure, tall, female, her smirk as sharp as Damien's.
"Who's this?" the woman purred, stepping into the light, her red dress clinging like a second skin.
Damien didn't flinch. "Lila. Perfect timing."
Aria's stomach dropped. Two of them? This wasn't in the script.
To be continued…