His personal dancer??
1736 Words
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ELOISE GREEN
I was curled up on the only surviving couch in our apartment — the one Audrey and I kept threatening to throw out but never actually did. It was ugly, a little lopsided, and creaked if you sat too fast, but it was ours. And at this moment, it was heaven.
Crime documentaries blared softly from the TV, the kind that made you side-eye your neighbors and wonder how many bodies they had buried under their garden. A half-eaten can of Pringles rested on my thigh, my free hand spooning ice cream straight from the tub. On my feet? Comfort socks. The thick fuzzy kind with little cartoon strawberries stitched on them.
Honestly, what more could a girl ask for?
Then my phone rang. Again.
I didn’t move.
It was the tenth time now, and I had no intention of reaching for it. Whoever it was could wait.
But I knew who it was.
“Tino…” I muttered under my breath.
Tino ran DON — one of the busiest clubs in the city, the one that actually paid my bills. He was also my boss. And if I knew him at all, I knew exactly what he wanted.
He wanted to yell at me for missing my shift yesterday.
And what excuse could I possibly give him? That I, Eloise Cherry Green, may or may not have accidentally wandered into Passion Den, the most exclusive club in the state, and got a whole damn tour like I belonged there?
Ridiculous.
But true.
Even now, the memory of stepping into that place made my skin prickle. Passion Den wasn’t just a club — it was an empire, the beating heart of the nightlife industry. Compared to them, DON was like… a food truck outside a five-star restaurant.
Still, it had been surreal. Me, Eloise, standing inside Passion Den, staring at people doing things I’d only ever seen on the shadiest corners of the internet.
I should’ve been at work yesterday, not gawking at million-dollar b**m stages and making a fool of myself in front of one Mr.Marcello.
My phone rang again.
I groaned dramatically, dragging my blanket over my head. “Can a girl not rot in peace for one afternoon?”
Audrey, my beloved sister, was at work, which meant the apartment was blessedly quiet. Just me, my snacks, and the comforting sound of murder mysteries. Bliss. But no, Tino clearly had other plans.
The phone didn’t stop.
I huffed, stretching for it without leaving my sacred couch nest. “Fine, fine. Let’s ruin my peace.”
I pressed answer. “Tino…” I drawled lazily.
“Cherry!” His voice exploded through the speaker, panicked. “What the hell happened? I’ve been blowing up your phone. I thought you died or something!”
I clutched my chest in mock offense. “Wow. It’s so sad that my boss wants his best dancer dead.”
“Don’t play games with me, Cherry.” His tone dropped. Quieter. More serious than I’d ever heard it. “I need you at the club. Now.”
My back went rigid. “Why? What’s wrong? Is there a problem?”
“There’s no problem. Just—” he paused, his voice hitching, “—just come over. Now.”
And then he hung up.
No explanation. No jokes. Just that.
My heart thudded.
Was he in danger?
Did something happen at the club?
Oh my God—was the club on fire?
I shot off the couch, abandoning both Pringles and ice cream like they meant nothing.
I didn’t even bother changing. I grabbed my pepper spray and wallet, still wearing my ridiculous pajamas — the oversized shirt with cartoon cats, the comfort socks, and my bright yellow crocs. No makeup, messy curls, drool crust probably still on the side of my mouth. Hot, right?
But Tino came first. Always.
He’d been my anchor three years ago, when I had nothing. A 5’2 half-Italian man with a protruding belly and the loudest laugh you’d ever hear, he’d taken Audrey and me in, given us food, shelter, and — for me — a stage to dance on.
He was the closest thing I had to a father.
So yeah, pajamas and crocs or not, if he called, I came running.
---
DON – 3:30 PM
The ride felt longer than usual, but eventually the taxi pulled up outside DON.
It was 3:30 PM, which meant the club should’ve been halfway alive with its usual staff and early drinkers. Not packed, but never empty.
Except today, it was.
The main floor was dark and hollow, no music, no chatter.
Empty.
I clutched my pepper spray tighter and rushed straight to Tino’s office.
“I’m here to save you, Tino!” I shouted dramatically as I barged through the door, weapon raised.
And then I froze.
Because sitting in Tino’s seat — his seat — wasn’t Tino.
It was him.
Brown eyes. That glint I remembered from yesterday. That aura that screamed power.
The man from Passion Den.
The man I had bumped into and internally swooned over like a lovesick teenager.
My body locked up, embarrassment flooding me from head to toe.
Because of course, the universe would send me into this room looking like a sleep-deprived raccoon in pajamas.
He sat there, impossibly composed in his tailored suit, exuding command without a word. Two bodyguards flanked him like shadows, silent and deadly.
And me? Pajamas. Comfort socks. Crocs. Pepper spray in hand.
I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.
Tino was off to the side, wide-eyed, clearly regretting every life choice that led to this moment.
Mr. Marcello’s gaze swept over me — slow, deliberate. His lips curved the faintest bit. Amusement.
Do I look funny to him?
Because I swear, if this man judged me for socks, crocs, and bed hair, I’d—
“You said she’s your best dancer,” Marcello finally spoke, his voice smooth, low, dangerous.
“Yes, Mr. Niccolò,” Tino jumped in, practically bowing. “I promise, she’s not usually like this. Cherry is the best. My best.”
Tino rushed to my side, smoothing down my wild curls like I was a misbehaving child.
“What’s happening?” I hissed at him, cheeks burning.
“Mr. Marcello has requested our best dancer,” Tino whispered, smiling like a lunatic.
“He owns Passion Den,” I whispered back frantically. “He can get dancers from his own club. Why come here?”
“Because he came here. Do you know what this means? A Marcello walked through our doors. We should be kissing the ground he stepped on.”
“That’s not the point! What if he’s here to steal secrets? Or—or destroy the club?”
“Cherry…” Tino sighed. “We’re not competition to Passion Den. They’ve been running for decades. And besides—”
“I can hear you,” Marcello cut in smoothly, his voice slicing through our bickering.
We both whipped our heads around.
“Sorry!” we chorused like scolded schoolkids.
Marcello rose to his full height with liquid grace, adjusting his tie. He looked down at me with cool detachment. “This has been a waste of my time. I expected more from you, Tino.”
He paused, eyes locking on mine.
“More than a deranged bunny with a pepper spray.”
My jaw dropped.
Did this man just—
No. No he didn’t.
“Excuse me?!” I snapped before I could stop myself. “Coming from Mr. Tight Pants?”
The room went dead silent.
Tino audibly gasped. One bodyguard twitched. Marcello’s lips curved, but not quite into a smile.
His pants weren’t even that tight. Just… fitted. Perfectly fitted. Which was worse, really.
But he called me a deranged bunny. I couldn’t just let that slide.
Marcello strode toward me in two effortless steps, hands in his pockets. He towered over me, his presence swallowing me whole.
“Feisty,” he murmured, so low it brushed against my skin like a secret.
I stepped back instinctively, heart hammering.
“For your sake, Tino, I hope you’re right about this one.” His eyes didn’t leave mine. “And you, Miss…?”
“Eloise Cherry Green,” I croaked.
“Miss Cherry Green,” he repeated, rolling the words like a test. Then he leaned in just slightly, his voice a hushed command. “Lose. That. Attitude.”
And then he was gone.
Just like that.
The air shifted with his absence, and I realized I’d been holding my breath.
“Your mouth, Eloise! Your f*****g mouth!” Tino snapped, smacking the back of my head. “Do you realize what you just did?”
I winced. “I—”
“You called him tight pants!”
“He called me a bunny!”
“Cherry!” He dragged me by the ear like a child. “Do you want to ruin me? Do you want to ruin us?”
“Ouch! Papa!” I yelped, pulling the old trick.
Tino froze.
“You sly b***h,” he muttered, releasing my ear.
I grinned. Works every time.
But his smile didn’t last long.
“He needs a dancer,” Tino finally said, serious again. “A personal dancer. For a year. No one else. Just him.”
“What?” I blinked. “That’s insane. I’m not doing that.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars a month.”
My world stopped.
“Did you just say—” My voice squeaked. “—twenty-five thousand? Monthly?”
“Yes.”
I almost dropped dead right there.
Oh, sweet heaven.
Why would a man pay that much for a dancer?
---
NICCOLÒ MARCELLO
Her words echoed in my head long after I left.
Mr. Tight Pants.
The nerve of that girl.
Allen, my assistant, sat beside me, silent as ever.
“Allen,” I said smoothly.
“Yes, boss?”
“Tell Pete to add an inch to my pants measurement.”
Allen blinked at me like I’d grown horns.
I shot him a cold look, and he shut up instantly.
Her words hadn’t gotten to me. Not even a little.
If anything, they amused me.
Because women like her — feisty, sharp-tongued, reckless — were always the easiest to break.
And I intended to break her beautifully.
- Writer
