Alaina reached out. Her fingers trembled so badly she could barely grip the edge of the file.

She flipped open the heavy cover.

The bold black letters at the top of the page burned her eyes: Non-Disclosure Agreement & Personal Services Contract.

Her eyes darted down the page. The words jumped out at her like physical slaps.

On-call at all times. Absolute obedience. Prohibition of public relationship disclosure.

Alaina's head spun. A wave of dizziness hit her so hard she had to grab the edge of the glass table to stay upright.

She snapped her head up and stared at Hardin. He was leaning back on the sofa, casually twirling a silver pen between his fingers.

"You want to buy me?" she gasped, her chest heaving. "You want me to be your secret whore for fifty million dollars?"

Hardin stopped twirling the pen. He stood up.

He closed the distance between them in two long strides, forcing Alaina to stumble backward until her bare back hit the freezing glass of the floor-to-ceiling window.

Hardin slammed his hand against the glass right next to her ear.

His chest was inches from hers. She could feel the intense heat radiating from his body, a sharp contrast to the freezing glass against her spine.

"Do not act so offended," Hardin whispered. His breath brushed against her neck, making her skin break out in goosebumps. "Three years ago, at that frat party, you looked at me like I was a stray dog begging for scraps."

The mention of the frat party sent a violent shudder through Alaina's entire body.

Her breathing hitched. "You took advantage of me!" she yelled, her voice cracking. "I was drunk, and you forced yourself on me! You are a monster!"

Hardin's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. His eyes turned pitch black, swirling with a violent, dangerous storm.

He did not deny it. He never denied it.

He let out a cold, cruel laugh. "Yes. I am Wall Street trash. And right now, trash is the only thing keeping your father out of a cage."

Hardin's large hand dropped to her waist. His fingers gripped her hip through the thin silk.

Alaina stiffened instantly, her muscles locking up in pure panic.

"You have nothing left to trade, Alaina," he mocked, his thumb pressing into her hip bone. "Except this body."

A hot tear escaped Alaina's eye. It rolled down her cheek and dropped directly onto the back of Hardin's hand.

The tear was boiling hot. Hardin's fingers flinched, pulling away from her skin for a fraction of a second.

Alaina shoved both her hands against his hard chest, pushing him back with all her remaining strength.

"I would rather die than sign this!" she screamed.

She grabbed the NDA from the table. She gripped the thick stack of paper and ripped it down the middle.

She tore it again, and again, until her hands ached.

She threw the shredded pieces into the air. The white confetti rained down onto the expensive Persian rug.

The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence.

Hardin did not yell. He did not move. He just stared at her, his chest rising and falling slowly.

He reached over and pressed a button on his desk phone. "Security. Remove her."

Alaina grabbed her small clutch. She turned and ran toward the heavy double doors.

She pushed them open just as two massive security guards arrived. They grabbed her arms roughly and dragged her into the elevator.

As the metal doors slid shut, Alaina saw Hardin standing in the shadows of his office, watching her like a predator waiting for its prey to bleed out.

Alaina was thrown out of the front doors of the building.

A freezing Manhattan rainstorm instantly soaked her to the bone. The thin silk dress clung to her shivering body.

She kicked off her bloody high heels. She walked barefoot onto the freezing, rough asphalt of the street.

Her tears mixed with the cold rain.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed in her clutch.

She pulled it out with shaking, wet fingers. It was the hospital.

"Miss Gay," the nurse's voice was rushed. "Your father suffered a massive heart attack. He is in the ICU. We need a fifty thousand dollar deposit immediately to continue treatment."

Alaina's knees gave out. She dropped to the wet pavement, the rough asphalt scraping her skin.

She was completely, utterly trapped.

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.

The loud crash of the cart hitting the table shattered the quiet atmosphere of the Viper Room.

The men on the leather sofas stopped talking.

The man who had spoken stood up. He walked over to the cart, his face twisted in annoyance.

Under the red spotlight, Alaina saw his face clearly. It was Tucker. He used to be a low-level lackey who followed her brother around, begging for scraps from the Gay family.

Tucker leaned in close. He squinted at Alaina's heavy makeup.

Suddenly, his eyes widened. He threw his head back and let out a loud, obnoxious bark of laughter.

"Hicks!" Tucker yelled over his shoulder. "You are not going to believe this! Come look at the mighty princess of the Gay family!"

Another man stepped out of the shadows. Hicks. Another former parasite.

Hicks walked up to Alaina. He raised his hand, his fingers stained yellow from cigar smoke, and roughly grabbed her chin.

He tilted her face from side to side, inspecting her like a piece of meat.

"Well, damn," Hicks whistled, his eyes dropping to her exposed chest. "How the mighty have fallen."

Alaina jerked her head back, tearing her chin out of his grip. Her stomach churned so violently she thought she was going to throw up.

Tucker reached out and ripped the plastic nametag off her chest.

"Lexi?" Tucker mocked, reading the tag. "That is a great stripper name, Alaina."

Alaina grabbed the handle of the cart. She turned around to run back to the door.

The two bodyguards immediately stepped forward, blocking the exit with their massive bodies.

"You do not leave the Viper Room until the guests say so," Hicks sneered.

From the deepest, darkest corner of the massive circular sofa, the sound of ice clinking against glass echoed again.

"Bring her here."

The voice was low, cold, and carried absolute, terrifying authority.

Alaina's lungs stopped working. Her blood literally froze in her veins. Her legs felt like they were made of lead.

Tucker and Hicks immediately stopped laughing. They stepped aside, bowing their heads slightly in respect.

The man in the shadows leaned forward. The red light caught the sharp, cruel angles of his jaw.

Hardin Dyer.

He was wearing a black dress shirt, the top two buttons undone. He held a glass of whiskey in one hand. His dark eyes stared at her with the cold detachment of someone looking at a dead insect.

Alaina took a step backward. Her spine hit the cold, hard wall of the room.

Hardin swirled his drink. "Well, Miss Gay? Are you not going to pour the guests their drinks?"

Tucker grabbed Alaina's shoulder. He shoved her forward, forcing her to stumble toward the low glass table.

He pushed down on her shoulder, forcing her to bend over the table.

The tight lace bodysuit stretched dangerously across her back, exposing even more of her skin to the room.

Alaina's hands shook violently as she reached for the heavy bottle of Louis XIII.

She moved toward Hardin's empty glass. Her hands were trembling so badly that the heavy crystal bottle slipped.

A splash of the amber liquid poured over the edge of the glass and landed directly onto the toe of Hardin's polished leather shoe.

The temperature in the room plummeted to zero. Tucker gasped and took a step back.

Alaina's face went completely white. Panic seized her throat. She instinctively reached for a napkin to wipe it away.

Hardin kicked her hand away.

He raised his foot. He pressed the hard leather toe of his shoe directly under Alaina's chin, forcing her head up.

He looked down at her heavy makeup and her trembling lips. A storm of violent, dark emotion raged in his eyes.

"Is this why you tore up my contract?" Hardin asked, his voice a lethal whisper. "So you could come here and sell yourself to anyone with a wallet?"

Alaina bit her bottom lip so hard she tasted her own blood. Tears burned the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.