The clock ticked past nine when Elena Cruz slipped out of her tiny apartment, pulling her worn jacket tighter against the night chill.
Her aunt's faint coughing echoed in her head as she walked quickly down the dark street. Rent. Medicine. Food.
Three shifts a day, seven days a week. That was her life.
And tonight, like every night, her destination was Eclipse Club—the place where the city's rich came to drown themselves in sin.
She wasn't there to dance or drink.
She was there to clean.
The pounding music hit her chest the moment she pushed through the back door. Neon lights flashed across the crowded room, bodies pressed against one another, laughter mixing with the bass. Elena ignored it all.
She had mastered the art of being invisible. She moved between tables, collecting glasses, wiping down sticky surfaces, pretending she couldn't see the expensive dresses, the drunken arguments, the way men looked at women like they were toys.
She didn't care. She couldn't afford to care.
Until the atmosphere shifted.
The music kept playing, but the crowd changed. Whispers rippled through the room, and even the drunkest patrons seemed to sober.
The atmosphere shifted when he walked in.
Damian Volkov.
The billionaire. The man people feared to even name out loud—the ruthless heir to an empire of money and shadows.
His tall frame filled the entrance, his broad shoulders set in a crisp black suit. His face was all sharp lines and cruel beauty, his eyes like shards of obsidian.
Every woman in the club turned to look at him, some openly, some shyly. Desire painted their stares.
Elena froze. She wasn't like them, but even she couldn't deny his devastating presence.
she watched him stride toward the VIP lounge. She had seen him in magazines, on television, but nothing compared to the raw danger he radiated in person.
He walked with calm arrogance, his guards cutting a path through the crowd. And then—he stopped.
A girl, tipsy and giggling, stumbled right into his way. She barely had time to look up before Damian's hand shot out, clamping around her wrist.
His grip was merciless, his jaw tightening as he stared down at her like she was nothing but dirt beneath his shoes.
The girl whimpered, tugging against him.
The crowd hushed.
And before she could stop herself, Elena moved.
She slipped between tables, her heart hammering as she forced her way closer. Her hand trembled, but her voice—though soft—didn't waver.
"She's drunk," Elena said quickly, standing before him. "She didn't mean it. It was a mistake."
Every eye in the room darted toward her. A cleaner. A nobody.
Damian's eyes slid from the girl in his grasp to Elena. He studied her with unsettling intensity, and the corner of his lips curved into something dark. A chuckle slipped out, low and amused.
His guards instantly stepped forward, fury flashing in their eyes at the audacity of her interruption. One reached out as if to shove her aside.
But Damian lifted his hand lazily.
"Don't," he ordered, his voice like ice and fire.
The guards froze.
Elena's heart thudded in her chest as Damian finally released the other girl, who stumbled away in tears. He leaned back slightly, gaze never leaving Elena.
"Interesting! You have a bold tongue," he murmured, "Do you have a death wish, little one?"
Elena swallowed hard, but she didn't back down.
" You should be happy that I'm in a good mood or.... he stopped and walked away.
Damian lounged in the exclusive VIP booth of the Club, a glass of whiskey swirling lazily in his hand. Across from him, his long-time friend and business partner, Viktor, smirked.
"I saw what happened earlier," Viktor said, voice carrying amusement. "You actually let a nobody talk back to you. That's a first."
Damian's lips curved into a dark smile, his gaze sharp. "She's not like the others. She didn't tremble. She didn't beg. She stood there like she wasn't staring death in the face."
Viktor chuckled. "And you like that?"
"I want her," Damian said simply, his voice low, absolute. "And I'm definitely going to make her mine now."
He set his glass down with a soft clink and snapped his fingers. One of his guards moved instantly, pulling the club's manager forward. The man was pale, sweating, and trembling at being summoned.
"Sir—" the manager stammered.
Damian leaned forward, his eyes turning to cold steel. "The cleaner girl. The one who interfered."
The manager swallowed hard. "Y-yes, Mr. Volkov. Elena Cruz. She—she just left for the night."
"Good," Damian said, voice like velvet edged with blades. "Arrange a night with her. I don't care how. If you fail…" His gaze flicked to the gun strapped at his guard's side. "…I'll have your head blown off your your shoulders."
The manager's knees almost buckled as he nodded furiously. "Y-yes, sir! I'll take care of it, sir!"
Damian leaned back again, sipping his drink with calm satisfaction. His eyes glittered at one of the girls there, the predator already playing with thoughts of his prey.