His Vengeful Game: The Bankrupt Heiress

Alaina stared at her reflection in the dirty mirror of the underground club's locker room. She barely recognized herself. Heavy, dark smoky eyeshadow covered her eyelids, masking the redness from her crying. She pulled the tight, black lace bodysuit up over her hips. The fabric was so restrictive she could barely take a full breath. Last night, she had pawned her last diamond watch to pay the ICU deposit. It wasn't enough. She needed cash tonight, or they would pull her father's life support. Roxy, the floor manager, walked into the locker room. She threw a cheap plastic nametag onto the makeup counter. "Put it on," Roxy ordered. Alaina looked at the tag. It read: Lexi. "The guys out there are Wall Street animals," Roxy warned, crossing her arms. "They tip big, but they have sick requests. Do not cause a scene." Alaina nodded numbly. She pinned the tag to the deep neckline of the lace bodysuit. She strapped on a pair of seven-inch platform heels. Her raw, blistered ankles screamed in pain, but she forced herself to stand up straight. She followed Roxy out of the locker room. The heavy bass of the electronic music hit her chest like a physical punch. The air was thick with the smell of cheap perfume, sweat, and expensive cigars. Alaina was handed a heavy silver tray loaded with glasses. She walked out into the main floor. Within ten minutes, a drunk trader in a wrinkled suit reached out and tried to grab the lace edge of her bodysuit. Alaina twisted her hips, dodging his sweaty hand. The trader's face turned red. He grabbed a full martini glass and threw it straight at her chest. The freezing alcohol soaked into the lace, chilling her skin. "Stupid bitch!" he slurred. Alaina locked her jaw. She did not say a word. She grabbed a bar towel and wiped the sticky liquid off her chest. Roxy watched from the bar. She walked over and shoved a crumpled hundred-dollar bill into Alaina's hand. "Good girl. You kept your mouth shut." Alaina gripped the bill so tightly it almost tore. She needed more. At midnight, the club manager sprinted into the back hallway. He was sweating profusely. "The Viper Room just arrived!" he yelled. "Where is Chloe? They want the best girl!" "Chloe passed out in the bathroom from bad powder," Roxy yelled back. The manager's panicked eyes scanned the hallway. His gaze locked onto Alaina. "You," he pointed a fat finger at her. "Get on the cart. The tip in the Viper Room is ten thousand minimum." Ten thousand dollars. Alaina's heart slammed against her ribs. That was enough to keep her father alive for another week. "I will do it," Alaina said instantly. Roxy loaded three bottles of Louis XIII onto a heavy brass cart. The bottles clinked together, sounding like alarm bells. Alaina gripped the handle of the cart. She pushed it down the dark, narrow hallway toward the heavy black doors at the very end. Two massive bodyguards stood outside. One of them patted her down roughly, checking her waist and thighs for recording devices. He nodded and pushed the heavy doors open. A dim, blood-red light spilled out into the hallway. Alaina pushed the heavy cart inside. The thick smell of Cuban cigars immediately burned her throat, making her cough quietly. The room was completely soundproofed. The deafening music from outside was gone. The only sound was the clinking of ice cubes in crystal glasses. "Well, look at this," a sleazy, familiar voice echoed from the leather sofas. "A new toy for the night." Alaina's blood ran cold. Her spine stiffened into a rigid line. She knew that voice. She slowly lifted her head. She squinted through the red haze, looking toward the center of the room. When her eyes finally focused on the faces in the shadows, her hands jerked. The heavy brass cart slammed violently into the edge of the glass table. The three bottles of Louis XIII wobbled dangerously.