Anastasia | +18

Anastasia

"You sold me out to that asshole." I storm into Wood's office, my employment contract clenched tightly in my hand, the paper crumpled and torn at the edges.

Wood looks up from his desk, unbothered, that same infuriatingly calm expression on his face.

"Hello, Lena," he greets me, his tone cool, detached.

"You promised me I'd get to decide," I snap, slamming the contract onto his desk. "You said I'd choose when to sell myself." My voice wavers, but anger steadies it. Josh's smug face flashes in my mind, he actually thinks Monday will be the day.

Wood leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. A chuckle escapes him, dark and condescending. "You're such a capricious little brat, Lena," he says, his voice dripping with venom. "Do you even comprehend how much money you're about to cost me if you refuse this request?"

I look away, biting the inside of my cheek. If I say no to Josh, I lose everything, the big payouts, my room at the club. And there's no way I could impose on Iséle, no matter how generous she is. She'd never turn me away, but I can't keep taking without giving back. I wouldn't even be able to repay her someday.

Wood exhales sharply, running a hand over his face before flashing a predatory smile. "In a few days, some important men are coming. Italians and Russians. VIPs." His voice grows colder. "You know I always trust you with the Russians. You're the only one who speaks their language fluently. So, Saturday, find me one. Get fucked, and bring in the cash. If you pull it off, maybe I'll let you decline Josh's little... offer."

I don't respond. Italians and Russians. Rich, powerful men who see girls like me as nothing more than a commodity. Probably older tourists with too much money to burn.

But what choice do I have? I nod stiffly, already running scenarios in my head. I'd have to make enough to keep Wood happy, avoid getting tangled up with one of them, and still find a way to escape Josh's clutches.

It's a dangerous gamble, but it's the only play I have left.

___________________________________________________________________________

I sit at the bar, idly spinning one of those tiny umbrellas they stick in cocktails. I've always liked them for some reason, those little, childish things that seem so out of place here. The orange and yellow swirls of the drink catch my eye, pulling me back to a memory I'd rather forget.

Russia.

Father was in his office, as always, and Mother was yelling at the maid to mop the floor better, her shrill voice echoing through the halls. I wanted so badly to scream back at her, to throw her own venomous words right back in her face. She always wielded her power like a weapon, sharp and cruel. She never loved me, not really. Maybe she thought I was even Father's child, just some mistake from one of his affairs. But no, I was just this poor little adopted girl.

And Aleksandr? Aleksandr loved her. Not father, but her. He followed her lead, looked to her for everything. But me? What was I to him? A burden? An inconvenience? His adopted little sister? His possession ?

The last thought sends a shiver through me, one I can't quite decipher. A burden, a sister, a possession. That word lingers, curling around my mind like smoke. I frown, not because the idea disgusts me, but because it doesn't. I hate myself for it, for even entertaining the thought. And yet, there's a part of me that doesn't hate it at all.

The fragile parasol snaps in my fingers, a sharp crack that breaks through my spiraling thoughts. I mutter a curse under my breath, the Russian slipping out without a second thought.

"Are you all right?" Iséle's voice, soft and concerned, pulls me back to the present.

I glance over my shoulder to see her standing there, her eyes searching mine.

"Yes, sorry, just a... just clumsy," I stammer, my voice uneven. I turn back to my drink, avoiding her gaze.

What the fuck is wrong with me ?

"Would you like to come to the market this afternoon? I'm going to pick up some vegetables for my mother," she says, her smile bright and inviting.

"Your mother?" I ask, more out of habit than real curiosity.

"Yes! The vegetables at the market are the freshest. And I'm sure you'll find plenty of other things to like too," she replies, her enthusiasm contagious.

I hesitate. I've never liked markets. Crowded spaces where people jostle and step on each other, the noise, the chaos, it all makes my skin crawl. It reminds me too much of the parties my parents used to throw, where the rich and the mafia mingled, exchanging false smiles and underhanded deals.

One party, in particular, flashes in my mind. The night Mother sold me to Simon Vizoey, the Italian bastard. The memory feels like a thorn lodged deep in my chest. It was the only decision Aleksandr ever seemed to disapprove of, and for a brief moment, I was grateful to him.

Until Aleksandr's anger turned on me instead of my mother. He was never physically violent, not with blows or bruises, but the way his gaze darkened, the shift in his breath when he was angry, it unsettled me in ways I couldn't explain.

I push the memory aside, forcing a small smile. "Okay, I'll come. Let me grab my bag," I say, standing up from the bar.

Her face lights up, and for a moment, I envy her simplicity, her ability to find joy in something as mundane as a trip to the market.

As I step into my dressing room, I grab my bag and pause in front of the mirror. My gaze falls on the burn mark etched into my skin. It stands out starkly, a constant reminder of a past I'd rather forget. My hand hovers over the small collection of makeup on the counter.

I hesitate, my fingers brushing the edge of a concealer bottle. The idea of covering it up tempts me, but before I can decide, Iséle's cheerful voice echoes from the other room, urging me to hurry.

I sigh and let my hand drop. Instead, I sling the bag over my shoulder. My hair will hide it well enough, won't it? What's the worst that could happen? Before I leave, I make sure to turn off the neon lights in front of the club. Calious Club.