The music thumped like a second heartbeat — one I didn't trust.
I moved with it anyway. One foot in front of the other, hips swaying in a rhythm I didn't feel but had memorized long ago. The lights washed over me in shades of red and gold, masking the cracks in my foundation. To them, I was a goddess in glitter. In heels. In control.
To me, I was a girl who'd run out of places to hide.
"Don't look up," I reminded myself as I worked the stage. "Keep your eyes on the crowd, not the VIP."
But I felt it — that gaze. Burning. Calculated. Cold.
Dorian Vale.
They called him the Devil of Las Vegas. He owned the casino I danced in, along with half the Strip and probably the souls of everyone who'd ever bet against him. I'd never met him. Never even seen him up close. But tonight, something shifted.
He was here.
And he was watching me.
I let my eyes flick upward, just once. Just enough to catch a glimpse.
He sat in the center of the VIP balcony, perfectly still, a drink in one hand, his other arm draped casually along the back of the leather booth. His face was unreadable — all sharp lines, shadows, and control. People flanked him like bodyguards, but none of them mattered.
Only him.
The moment our eyes met, something inside me clenched.
I snapped my gaze away before it could show.
I finished my set with extra polish, extra grace — like it mattered. Like I had control. The lights dimmed, applause flared, and I disappeared into the wings before anyone could stop me.
Including him.
Backstage smelled like sweat and hairspray, desperation hiding under sequins and dollar bills. Girls laughed, smoked, adjusted their wigs. I didn't speak. I peeled off my stilettos and exhaled like I'd just come up for air.
"Nice set," Marnie called from the mirror. "VIP liked you. Real VIP."
I didn't answer.
My hands trembled slightly as I reached for my water bottle. Not from fear — not exactly. Dorian Vale was just a man. Powerful, yes. Dangerous, absolutely. But flesh and blood. He couldn't touch me. Not really.
Except he already had, hadn't he?
One look, and I couldn't breathe right.
"Hey," a voice said behind me, low and clipped. Male.
I turned. One of the floor managers — Reggie — stood just inside the dressing room, trying not to look too interested in the naked bodies around him.
"Boss wants a word," he said.
My blood turned to ice.
"The manager?" I asked, feigning ignorance.
Reggie gave me a look. "The boss."
My heart did a slow, painful roll. "Now?"
Reggie nodded. "Now."
The hallway to the executive suite was silent except for the click of my heels. I'd changed into my off-stage clothes — still tight, still low-cut, still armor. My skin prickled with every step.
Why me?
What did Dorian Vale want with a girl like me?
The door opened before I could knock.
I was ushered in without fanfare — into low lighting, expensive bourbon, and velvet silence. And him.
Dorian Vale stood near the window, back turned, watching the city he owned like a king looking down on his kingdom.
He didn't turn as I entered. "Sloane Mercer."
His voice was like smoke — smooth, deep, with an edge of something dangerous underneath.
"Yes," I said quietly.
He finally turned.
He was taller than I expected. Sharper. More real and more unreal all at once. His eyes locked onto mine with such focus I forgot how to swallow.
"You're an exceptional dancer," he said.
"Thank you."
"That's not why I asked you up here."
My pulse skittered.
"Why did you, then?"
He stepped closer, slow and measured, like he didn't need to rush. Like he always got what he wanted, eventually.
"I don't like mixing business with pleasure," he said.
I nodded. "Understood."
"But I find myself willing to make an exception."
My breath caught. "For me?"
His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Let's call it… curiosity."
I should've walked away. I should've said thank you and left with my dignity intact. But instead, I stood there — frozen, furious, and intrigued.
I'd survived too much to be another one of his toys.
But if Dorian Vale thought he could play me—
He had no idea who he was dealing with.