The bass hits me in the chest like a physical blow. The club is a cavern of flashing strobe lights and shadows, smelling of expensive cologne, sweat, and illicit deals.
Stavros doesn't walk through the crowd; he parts it. His hand is a heavy weight on the small of my back, guiding me—pushing me—toward the elevated VIP section.
I keep my head high, trying to ignore the eyes that track us. The strapless dress he forced me to wear leaves my shoulders bare, exposing the angry, dark bruise he left on my neck this morning.
I feel like a brand new car being driven off the lot. A trophy.
"Don't look at them," Stavros growls in my ear, his breath hot against my shell-shocked skin. "Look at me."
I glare at him, but he just smirks and shoves me toward a semi-circular leather booth where three m
