I am the daughter of New York's foremost surgeon.

A slap cracked across my cheek.

“You’re utterly worthless,” Dante ground out through clenched teeth. “Did you think changing your name and slapping on that makeup would fool me?”

“You could have lived like a princess. Why choose this? Do you realize how repulsive you are to me now?”

Disgusting.

Not just to him — to myself. I had hated this version of me a thousand times.

After each shift, I’d soak in the bath, scrubbing my skin raw until every inch burned and stung.

I had been a princess.

My father was Dr. Valerius, one of New York’s foremost surgeons. His tips from Wall Street tycoons, politicians and celebrities eclipsed his surgical fees.

Then my father’s life fell apart.

He missed an operation trying to reach me; his license was revoked; his mind unraveled.

Now I support two children and pay the nursing-home fees that swallowed what was left of us.

Our assets were long gone. This is how I survive.

“Are you finished? Move aside. My client is waiting.”

Dante hesitated. “Does—does your father know about this? This work?”

I shot back, “What if he does? What if he doesn’t? It’s none of your business.”

My indifference ignited him. His chest heaved; then he stormed off, retreating with a fury he hid behind a tight jaw.

The night wind was sharp. I pulled my thin coat closer, smoothed the hair he’d mussed, and hurried down the corridor.

Before dawn, I changed into scratchy linen and forced my body out the back door of the club.

A hulking woman lunged from the crowd and grabbed Kaminsky by the collar as he stepped out. She jabbed a finger in my face, shrieking, “Speak! Did you spend last night with this slut?”

Kaminsky went pale. “Darling, calm down—honestly, nothing happened. We just had drinks.”

“You spent fifteen hundred just on drinks? Do you think I’m an idiot?”

She landed blow after blow on him until he begged for mercy. Then, like a bull, she turned on me—shoving me to the pavement, straddling me, raining punches down.

“If you don’t cough up that fifteen hundred today, I’ll beat you to death, you slut who seduces men for cash!”

I clutched my pocket. Those few hundred kept my kids fed and kept the home from foreclosure. I couldn’t hand them over.

A crowd gathered, hungry for spectacle. No one stepped in. They egged her on.

“Beat her! Beat the filthy thing till she coughs up the cash!”

“It’s these vixens—cheap tricks to make men hand over their money!”

“She deserves to die!”

These scenes replayed every few days. I’d grown numb as stone to the jeers and slander.

Emboldened, the woman dug a fruit knife from her bag and pressed the blade to my throat. “Pay now, or I’ll scar that pretty face. Then see how you lure men.”

The blade descended—until an iron hand clamped her wrist.

“Fancy a night in the cells?” a voice barked.

She froze, then sneered, “So it’s his old flame. What, come to rescue her?”

Councilman Antonio stormed up behind, roaring, “How dare you disrespect the Costello name?”

Dante’s face had gone stone. “Get lost.”

The woman, cowed by his stare, backed off. She spat at me as she retreated, muttering, “Shameless slut. Try seducing my husband again and I’ll break your legs.”

I staggered to my feet, wiped blood from my lip, brushed dust from my clothes, and limped away.

“Just leave like that?” Dante’s voice sliced the air behind me—cold, hard, and very much not finished.