Chapter 5

　　~Samantha's POV~

　　"Room 69, please," I announce to the receptionist sitting behind the counter in the massive lobby.

　　"Just a moment, Miss," she responded, right after raising her head to look at me, before picking up the telephone on the desk and making a quick call. When she was done, she flashed a smile and slid a key card in my direction.

　　"He's expecting you," she said for a final time. I offered a small smile back, picked up the key, and headed straight for the elevator. As soon as it dings open, I stepped inside, preparing to face the man upstairs.

　　Mason. My best friend... Macy's older brother, and my exclusive client for almost a year.

　　It wasn't always like this.

　　A year and a half ago, I was just Samantha Miller, the girl who'd finally gotten her ticket out. A letter of acceptance to State University, a full scholarship for my grades, and a future that felt bright and certain. I'd grown up knowing the value of a dollar....my parents were the kind of working class people who stretched every cent until it screamed...but for a while, I felt invincible. College life was new, demanding, and utterly exhilarating.

　　Then came the bottom dropping out.

　　My father's hours were cut. Then, my mother had an unexpected surgery. The savings, which were already thin, vanished overnight. My scholarship covered tuition, but everything else...the dorm fees, the ridiculously overpriced textbooks, the simple necessity of eating...was a constant, gnawing pressure.

　　The little allowance my parents managed to scrape together for my living expenses was barely enough for a month, let alone an entire semester. I was skipping meals by October, watching my clothes get looser, and turning down every social invitation because 'fun' required money I didn't have.

　　The desperation was a cold fist clenching in my gut. I couldn't ask my parents for more; they were already drowning. I was too proud to ask Macy, Mason's younger sister, for a loan, and Mason himself was a world away, a successful businessman who lived a life of expensive suits and private jets, always on a trip somewhere far-flung.

　　I needed a job, and I needed one that paid well, fast, and didn't have a schedule that would wreck my pre-med major. The solution, when it finally presented itself, felt like a scene out of a dark movie.

　　A nightclub two towns over. The Velvet Room. Far enough from campus, far enough from home. The advertisement was discreet: Dancers Wanted. Excellent Pay. I told myself it was temporary. Just until I had enough to cover the rest of the year. I convinced myself that the anonymity was my shield. The shame was a bitter pill, but the fear of dropping out and failing my family was a much stronger motivator.

　　I was shaking when I took the stage for the first time. The lights were blinding, the music was a brutalizing bass line, and I felt utterly exposed, a total fraud. I managed to get through the first two sets on pure adrenaline and a carefully constructed wall of detachment.

　　Then the manager caught my eye. "VIP, new girl. Room Three. Just a private dance. The client pays extra for the first time."

　　My stomach flipped, but I nodded. More money, less time on the floor. I tugged the sheer robe tighter around me and walked down the dim, carpeted hall, my cheap heels clicking with a rhythm that felt like a countdown.

　　I paused outside the door, took a shaky breath, and slipped the key card in.

　　The room was bathed in a low, amber glow. Soft jazz replaced the club's roar. There was a leather sofa, a heavy oak table with an ice bucket, and one massive, shadowed figure seated in a wingback chair.

　　I stepped in, closing the door softly. I turned toward the client, preparing my stage smile, the one that was all teeth and no warmth.

　　The man shifted, his elbow lifting from the armrest, and the light from a nearby lamp caught the sharp, aristocratic line of his jaw. My entire world stuttered and ground to a halt.

　　Mason.

　　He was back. He was here. And he was my client.

　　For a terrifying, heart-stopping second, I couldn't move. My blood turned to ice, and the shame, that bitter pill, became a raging, fiery sickness.

　　I was caught. The perfect girl, the sweet, serious friend of his little sister, standing in a two-piece of black lace in a high-end strip club.

　　"Mason?" My voice was barely a choked whisper.

　　His eyes, dark and intense, were fixed on me. They weren't angry; they were utterly unreadable, a cold, dissecting stare that saw right through my desperation and my costume.

　　I spun around, my hand flying to the doorknob. "I'm so sorry, I can't. I...I have to go."

　　"Stop right there, Samantha."

　　The command was a low rumble, but it cracked through my panic like a gunshot. I froze, my back still to him, my hand hovering over the cold brass.

　　There was a silence that stretched for an eternity.

　　"Turn around," he finally ordered.

　　I swallowed hard, my shoulders sagging in defeat, and slowly faced him again. I couldn't meet his eyes, focusing instead on the pristine knot of his tie. He was dressed like he'd just come from a multi-million dollar meeting, a shocking contrast to the tawdry setting.

　　"What," he asked, his voice now dangerously quiet, "the hell are you doing here, Samantha?"

　　My defenses crumbled. I couldn't lie. I couldn't form the elaborate fiction I'd used on myself. The words spilled out, raw and rushed, a confession of fear and financial collapse. I told him about my parents, the bills, the shrinking allowance, the threat of losing my dream. I finished my frantic explanation and just stood there, waiting for the pity, the disgust, or the inevitable phone call to Macy.

　　He listened without interruption, his expression never changing. When I was done, he leaned back, crossing one expensive leather shoe over the other.

　　"Get dressed," he said.

　　I blinked, confused. "Excuse me?"

　　"You heard me. Put your clothes on. You're leaving. Now."

　　I scrambled for my bag, adrenaline coursing through me again. I thought he was just helping me escape the club, but I knew he'd make me pay for the favor later, or worse, tell Macy.

　　Once I was covered and ready to bolt, he stopped me with a gesture.

　　"I have a proposition for you, Samantha," he said, the corner of his mouth curving into a slow, chilling smile. "I can make this little problem of yours disappear. Completely. You can go back to being the star student, the good girl. You'll never have to set foot in a place like this again."

　　My heart hammered against my ribs. "What's the catch?"