His To Keep

Chapter One

“Showtime,” the stage manager called.

I took a breath, plastered on a smile I didn’t feel, and walked through the curtain.

The lights hit me like a wall. Blinding and hot. I couldn’t see the audience, which was probably for the best. The music started, something heavy and sensual that I had practiced in my apartment until my downstairs neighbor complained.

Just dance. That’s all this is. Just dancing.

I moved my hips, let the music guide me, tried to forget that dozens of eyes were watching. Tried to pretend I was anywhere else. The rhythm took over, muscle memory from the hours I had spent practicing, and slowly, the fear started to fade.

I could do this. I had to do this.

The song ended, and I made my way backstage on shaky legs. My first set was done. I had survived.

“Not bad for a first-timer,” Sierra said, touching up her makeup in the mirror beside me. “You’ll get used to it.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to get used to it.

“Aria!” Tony appeared again, grinning like he had won the lottery. “You got a bite already.”

My stomach dropped. “What?”

“Private session. One of the VIP clients. He wants you specifically.” Tony slid a piece of paper across the counter. A number. “That’s what he’s offering. For tomorrow. Home service.”

I stared at the amount written in Tony’s chicken scratch. That couldn’t be right. That was more than three months of working here would make.

“Who is he?” My voice came out as a whisper.

Tony shrugged. “Does it matter? His security already cleared the arrangement. You dance, you get paid, you leave. Simple.”

Nothing about this felt simple.

“I need an answer now,” Tony pressed. “Guy like this doesn’t wait around.”

I thought about Granny. About the way she had looked at me this morning from her hospital bed, trying to be brave even though I could see the pain in her eyes. About the doctor’s grim expression when he’d gone over the treatment options we couldn’t afford.

“Okay,” I heard myself say. “I’ll do it.”

Tony’s grin widened. “Good girl. Details will be on your phone within the hour. Don’t be late.”

As he walked away, Sierra leaned over. “Home service for your first week? Damn. That’s either really good luck or really bad judgment on his part.” She paused. “Be careful, okay? Some of these guys think paying more means they get more.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just… set your boundaries. Stick to them. Don’t let him pressure you into anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Great. That made me feel so much better.

My phone buzzed an hour later while I was changing back into my street clothes. The address came through, and I felt my stomach drop for the second time that night.

Blackwood Tower. Penthouse level.

I knew that building. Everyone in the city knew that building. It was where the ultra-rich lived, where million-dollar deals were made, where people like me only entered through the service entrance.

I googled the name attached to the address, and my breath caught.

Ethan Blackwood.

The photos showed a man in his early thirties, dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes that seemed to see right through the camera. He was gorgeous in that untouchable way that billionaires always were. Every photo showed him with a different woman—models, socialites, actresses. Beautiful women who looked nothing like me.

The articles painted him as a playboy. A heartbreaker. A man who collected women like art pieces and discarded them just as easily.

“You’re insane,” I muttered to myself, staring at his photo. “This is insane.”

But the number on that paper was still burned into my brain. And Granny’s surgery was still impossible without it.

I went home to my tiny studio apartment, barely slept, and spent the next day in a haze of anxiety and overthinking. What do I wear to dance for a billionaire? What should I say? How should I act?

By the time 2 PM rolled around, I had changed clothes four times and was seriously considering backing out.

Then my phone rang. The hospital. Granny had taken a turn for the worse. They needed to move the surgery up. They needed payment soon.

The choice was made.

I changed into the simple navy dress Maya had helped me pick out for job interviews, grabbed my dance bag, and headed out.

The Uber dropped me off in front of Blackwood Tower, and I felt completely out of place. The doorman looked at me like he knew exactly why I was there, but he let me pass without a word.

The elevator ride to the penthouse felt eternal. My heart hammered against my ribs. What was I doing? What was I really doing?

The doors opened directly into the apartment, and I stepped out into a world I had only seen in magazines.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. White marble. Art that probably cost more than my education. The view of the city was breathtaking, and for a moment, I forgot to be terrified.

“I could live here forever,” I whispered to myself.

“I’m glad you approve.”

I spun around, nearly dropping my bag.

He stood there, just as gorgeous as his photos but somehow more real. More dangerous. Ethan Blackwood wore jeans and a white shirt like they were designer pieces, his dark hair artfully messy, his eyes the color of smoke and storm clouds.

And he was looking at me like I was the most interesting thing in the room.

“I see you made it,” he said, moving closer with the kind of confidence that came from owning everything you touched. “Can I get you something to drink? Wine?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

This was happening. I was really doing this.

He handed me a glass, and when our fingers brushed, I felt it. A spark. A pull. Something that told me this was going to be so much more complicated than just dancing.

“Relax,” Ethan said, his voice low and smooth. “I don’t bite.”

The way he smiled told me that was probably a lie.