Chapter 3 Layla

There's something uniquely depressing about living in a "nice" apartment you can't actually afford.

Mine is the kind that looks pretty on paper-glass balcony, marbled kitchen counter, minimalist walls that echo with nothing but silence. It photographs well, like I'm living a life I designed.

But the truth?

It's cold. Empty. Sterile. Like someone hit copy-paste from a Pinterest board and forgot to install a soul.

My mattress is on the floor. There's no couch. I eat noodles off the same plate every night because buying more would feel like pretending I'm staying. I'm not. It's a box-a holding cell-for everything I don't want to deal with.

I splashed water on my face. The mirror looked back like it was tired of me too. Hair in a bun. Hoodie over my tank top. Mascara half-smudged because I slept in it-again.

The weight on my chest this morning?

It was new.

It wasn't the usual tightness of unpaid bills or my father's failing lungs. This was different. This was... unease. Like someone was watching me from inside my skin. I shook it off, pulled on my boots, and started walking.

The club wasn't far-seven blocks, two cigarette clouds, and one too many stares from men who thought I was for sale even off the clock. I kept my head down. Let my hoodie shield me from the world.

But I couldn't shake him.

That man.

The one from the bar. The way he looked at me-like I wasn't part of the scenery. Like I was the scene. It's been a week, I should have gotten a hold of myself by now.

"Layla!"

Donny's voice pulled me out of the spiral the moment I stepped through the club's back entrance.

He was leaning against the bar, hair pushed back like he was trying to look presentable but couldn't be bothered to try too hard.

"You look like warmed-up roadkill," he grinned.

I rolled my eyes. "You always know how to make a girl feel special."

He handed me a hot paper cup. "Coffee. Jet fuel edition. Figured you might need it. You've got that 'I saw a ghost or a dick pic' face."

"Both, maybe."

His grin faltered, just a little. "You good?"

I hesitated, sipping. "Just a weird morning. Feels like the universe is about to bitch-slap me."

"Again?" He smirked. "What's it waiting for-a formal invite?"

We both laughed, the kind of laugh you do to cover cracks in the floorboards. That's Donny-my comic relief in a world that forgot how to be funny.

"You didn't tell me what happened last night," he said after a beat.

"I didn't know I owed you a report."

"You don't. But I do keep track of my friends when they vanish into the bathroom and don't come back."

I looked down at my coffee. "Just needed space."

"From the job or from yourself?"

I didn't answer.

Instead, I slipped behind the curtains and into the dressing room. The air inside was thick with perfume and last night's secrets. The girls were getting ready for the afternoon set-wigs, lashes, half-buttoned corsets. None of them noticed me, which was a blessing. I didn't have the energy to pretend.

Then Margo, our snobby front-desk host, poked her head in.

"Layla?" she called out, voice high and bored. "You've got a private client request."

I frowned. "This early?"

"Apparently, he doesn't want a show. Just a chat." Her lips curled. "Big shot type. Didn't give a name."

I snorted but something in my gut twisted. I've seen a lot of men in this club-drunk, horny, broken, aggressive, pathetic. But someone like him? Quiet, calculating, unmoved by the glitter and flesh around him? That was dangerous

Something about the way she said it sent a chill up my spine.

"What room?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Upstairs. Red velvet suite. He's waiting.

Still donning my black hoodie and leather jeans, I headed for the lounge.

The door to the red velvet suite stood like a challenge. I knocked once, didn't wait for an answer, and walked in.

And then-I saw him. The man from the previous week.

Sitting alone like sin in a black suit, legs crossed, one arm thrown casually over the couch. The exceptional lighting of the room did nothing to brighten his dark exteriors. My boots clinked on marble floors as I took few steps into the room.

He didn't glance up to see what I looked like. He didn't scan to see wether I was wearing something sultry. His eyes-dark, unreadable-locked on mine and didn't budge.

I froze for half a second. Just one. Then I forced myself to breathe.

"I was told you weren't into dancers," I said, folding my arms.

"I'm not," he replied, voice like velvet laced with steel. "Sit."

Not can you sit. Sit.

"Excuse me?"

"Sit, Miss Greene."

I blinked. "How do you know my-?"

"I know more than just your name." He gestured to the chair across from him.

I hesitated, but sat. Mostly because curiosity was gnawing through my spine.

"This isn't about a dance," he said. "It's about business."

I gave a humor less look. "You want to buy my soul, or something ?" my humor was dry, the feeling to say something or the presence of this man might just swallow me whole.

He slid a sleek black folder toward me.

I hesitated, but opened it nonetheless-and my stomach dropped.

No. Fucking. Way.

My name. His name. A goddamn marriage contract.

"You're insane," I said, looking up at him. "Is this some kind of joke?"

His eyes didn't flinch. " I need a wife, legally, temporarily, and you fit the requirements.

" what requirements, deadbeat, desperate, disposable. I say with bitterness lacing my tone.

" indebted, unattached, quite and the will to do anything for her father"

"I'm not quiet," I snapped. "And I'm definitely not interested."

Ethan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Scratching his stubble lightly "Three companies. Over eighty thousand in debt. Your father's medical bills. The repo men nearly tracked you last week, didn't they?"

My throat went dry. And I knew this man was definitely out for my soul.

"How do you know that?"

"I make it my business to know everything about people I do business with."

"You call this business?. This is blackmail" I say

"I call it survival. For both of us."

I slammed the folder shut and shoved it back. "I'm not for sale."

"You're not." then he stops to think for second, like his rethinking this whole decision. " but you're for lease"

I stood. "Go to hell."

But he didn't flinch. "If you walk out, I'll release all your debt files to the collectors by morning. You'll be arrested before your first coffee. And your father? He'll die waiting for you."

My heart slammed against my ribs.

"You bastard."

His expression was unreadable. "I prefer opportunist."

I'll pay off everything," he added. "Your father's bills included. You'll never have to take your clothes off for a paycheck again. But only if you say yes."

" taking off my clothes is none of your business" I say harsher than I intended. But what the heck, he deserves a it.

" No it's not, but I bet it'd be a relief not to do so anymore"

He was calling me a fucking whore, dammit.

And there's nothing I would say to prove otherwise.

I was practically shaking with rage I sat back down. My hands trembled on my lap. I hated how calm he was. How cold. How certain he sounded. I hated this man in all.

"No intimacy," I said, voice low. What were you doing, slam this paperwork on his face and make a run for it, you'll figure something out, you always do. My inner voice screamed. I had no idea why I was saying this. But something dark, something lethal called me. That's all shades of messed up, I thought to myself.

"No expectations," he replied.

"Why me?"

"Because no one would expect it."

I stared at the folder. That contract might as well be a collar.

"You're disgusting," I said.

"You'll have a private suite, weekly payments, and a check of your stating when it's over. Sign it, and everything goes away."

I couldn't breathe. My mind was screaming at me to leave. But my heart? It was hanging on to the image of my dad, coughing in that damn hospital bed. The way he still smiled at me like I was his world. I couldn't lose him. Not like this.

I closed the folder slowly. My voice came out cracked.

"I need time."

"You have until tomorrow night," he said, standing smoothly. "After that, the deal disappears. And so does your freedom."

He walked past me, paused at the door, and said, "I'll see you soon, Mrs. Reed"

And then he was gone.

The silence he left behind felt like a cage.

And me?

I just sat there, staring at a contract that could either save my life-or end it.

Most likely the former.