Page 34 of Ruthless Lullaby

How could I be so naive?

Tightening my grip on the microphone, I hold my breath, trying to steady myself as the realization sinks in. Shit. This isn't your average exclusive party... it's a congregation of some of the most powerful men in New York. And they are used to having their way. They are not afraid to use and abuse their powerwhenever they wanton whomever they want. And right now, they have all their attention on me.

Calm it, Mindy.

Maybe you’re overreacting.

You have no idea who these men are.

I force a bright smile, hoping to deflect and appease them. "Oh gentlemen, let's not get carried away," I say with my brightest smile. "I'm only here to provide some lovely music for your evening."

But the crude shouts only grow more insistent, more menacing.

“Come on, baby! Show us that you’re more than just a pretty face with a nice voice!”

"If you want your money, do as we say."

“Lose the fucking dress!”

Barely containing my rising panic, my eyes land on Maron Korolev, once more. His cold eyes bore into me. His head tilts slightly like he’s waiting to see how I’m going to handle the situation. He doesn’t say a single thing, he just continues to stare at me in a way that gives me shivers and chills at the same time.

I can’t believe this is happening. By now, it’s obvious to me that these sick assholes don't care about my boundaries or consent. To them, I'm simply the entertainment they're paying for, by any means necessary.

I turn to face Kevin, silently pleading for help. "Do it," he mouths.

Oh my God.

He’s in on this too?

I should have known it was a setup all along.

How could I have been this naïve?

Who the hell pays this much for singing alone?

It’s clear there’s no way out of this. I don’t even want to think about what could happen if I object, so I do the unthinkable. With shaking hands, I slowly start to undo the buttons of my blouse, one by one. My hands roam lower and lower, and once the last button is undone, I let the garment slowly slide off my shoulders and drop to the floor.

The men continue shouting words of encouragement, making my humiliation even worse. My cheeks burn, my legs are shaking, but I have no choice; I keep undressing myself under the intense scrutiny of dozens of powerful men who will not take no for an answer.

One by one, the rest of my clothes join the growing pile on the stage, until I have nothing left except my bra and my panties. I force myself to keep singing in the meantime, to keep performing through the shame and vulnerability. Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back fiercely. I can't show weakness, not here.

As I stand vulnerable in front of eager stares, a sickening applause ripples through the crowd. The only person who doesn’t clap, of course, is Maron Korolev. He just continues to survey me, his eyes scanning my body possessively.

"Maybe you can follow instructions after all," he injects with a smirk, keeping his voice low.

Jesus Christ, what a royal asshole. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one in the room who understands his meaning. It is clear that he’s referring to our last meeting at Global Media where my exhaustion led to a bunch of unintended mistakes. Yet, even here, he refuses to show any sympathy. Here I am, doing everything I can to survive and pay my mother’s hospital bills, despite all the odds being stacked against me. If he didn’t fire me, I wouldn’t be standing here on the stage of this questionable venue, trying my best to entertain a bunch of questionable men.

What a dick.

All I want is to disappear, to run away and hide from this degrading moment. But even more than that, I want to scream into the microphone, "You're the reason I'm here, forced to strip in front of these men! You fired me!"

Keep it cool, Mindy.

Think about the money.

You didn’t make it this far to screw up now.

I bite back my words and continue to stand there, waiting for the applause to die down. Trapped, forced to endure obscene leers and jeers as I struggle to maintain my voice and what little dignity I have left. I've never felt so ashamed. Scratch that. I did, when I accidentally sent amateur porn to my boss, starring: yours truly.

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