Page 2 of Sexted By a Stranger
The bell signaling showtime jolted me back. I pushed through the heavy carved door.
Crystal chandeliers bathed the Emerald Room in dreamlike light. Dark walnut panels displayed impressionist paintings, and several bottles of aged whiskey gleamed on the long table. Two men in expensive suits occupied the leather sofa in the corner, each flanked by bodyguards in black. Cigar smoke curled between them as they spoke in low, controlled voices. Others lounged in chairs scattered around the room, their casual conversations creating a low hum of masculine voices.
The music started, and I walked slowly toward the circular stage at the center. The conversations died away as the men turned to watch. I tried to move my body, but I felt stiff as a marionette. Every sway of my hips was self-inflicted torture. I bit down hard, refusing to let tears fall. This is all pretend, I told myself. Just acting. Playing a part for Leon.
The room beyond the stage lights was dim, faces obscured, but I could feel their eyes dissecting every movement like surgical instruments, their gazes burning into my soul. Those terrible, evaluating, possessive stares made my fingers fumble as I loosened the dress ties.
In the corner, a fat guy held a crystal tumbler, fingers tapping along to the rhythm. He tilted his head slightly and casually tossed a wad of bills onto the stage. His gesture triggered an avalanche—others followed suit, money raining down in a vulgar cascade. The naked hunger in their eyes made my skin crawl. I was merchandise on display, an item in a shop window. I turned away, desperate to escape those leering gazes.
But the other man, sitting across from the first, hadn't moved at all. He simply sat there, watching. His dark suit emphasized the broad line of his shoulders, and his long fingers toyed with what looked like an antique ring.
As I turned, our eyes locked.
Those eyes—deep as a winter midnight, sharp enough to cut glass—fixed on me with laser focus. There was no mockery in that gaze, no casual lust. Just an intense, almost frightening concentration that made my breath catch.
Under that stare, I felt the absurd sensation of being... treasured.
No, more than treasured. Something fiercer, more primal—an absolute, unquestionable possession. As if I were some precious thing that belonged only to him, accidentally exposed to unworthy eyes.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but not from fear. This was something else entirely, something I'd never felt before.
His lips pressed together in the slightest frown. He turned his head fractionally, murmuring something to the man standing in the shadows behind him.
Then his gaze found me again, precise as a sniper's scope.
I froze mid-movement.
A stack of bills landed at my feet. I pressed my lips together and forced myself to keep dancing.
Somehow, I found myself dancing for him alone. Everyone else faded away until only he remained. This wasn't just a performance anymore—it was a wordless conversation between us.
That burning gaze wrapped around me like an invisible net, kindling a dizzying heat that spread through my body.
Ten minutes felt like ten hours.
When the music finally ended, I practically fled the stage.
"You did well, Sheila." Madeline handed me another envelope.
I took it, feeling its weight in my palm.
Fifty thousand dollars. Half of Leon's hope for life.
"Thank you. Really."
"Now you need to figure out how to get the rest." She squeezed my shoulder. "At least this buys you some time."
"I could still—"
"No." Madeline's tone was fiercer than I'd ever heard. "Think about Olivia."
The blood drained from my face.
I'd watched them drag that beautiful girl away.
"There has to be another way. Don't go down that road." Madeline's voice softened. She pulled me into a tight hug before leaving.
My hands were still shaking as I changed back into my own clothes. Jeans, sweater, sneakers—these simple, worn things made me feel incredibly safe, like I was finding myself again.
