CHAPTER 3
979 Words
Ivy
Dad’s voice boomed through the apartment’s loudspeaker system — something he rarely used unless he wanted the whole building to know he was furious.
“Ivy! Lila! Are you out of your damn minds!? Sneaking out? Disappearing? At least he didn't know we stripped You’re both grounded for the rest of your lives! Your allowance is CUT OFF!”
I sighed — long and dramatic — and took another slow sip of my herbal tea. The lemon-ginger flavor hit my tongue as Dad continued cursing in three different languages. Overkill? Yes. Surprising? Not really.
Lila, sprawled on the rug beside me, groaned. “My dad’s screaming through my speaker too. We’re so dead.”
“Security is doubled,” I reminded her. “And we need written permission from our dads just to step foot in the lobby.”
“And?” Lila smirked, raising her cup like a toast. “Worth it.”
We clinked mugs.
We didn’t regret a single thing.
If anything, we felt proud — we pulled off one of our most successful escapades without getting caught until after. That was still a win.
Later, we lounged in her room for our usual “screen time.” TikToks, celebrity news, memes — and then:
“Ooooh! Sexiest men alive list!” she squealed.
I slid closer, peering at her phone. We immediately started rating men according to our taste, and we still couldn’t decide if Gabriel Santis or Viktor Patreov was hotter.
“Gabriel has the face,” I argued.
“Viktor has the attitude,” she countered.
“We need a tie-breaker.”
There wasn’t one.
After ordering takeout, I lay back on her bed. My eyes grew heavy — last night’s adrenaline rush was catching up with me.
“Wake me in thirty,” I mumbled.
The room faded.
---
Gabriel De Santis
I replayed the club footage from last night, staring at the masked girl in green lingerie. I had seen beautiful women before — countless — but something about her felt like sin dressed as temptation.
Then I noticed the very obvious problem in my pants.
“You’re hard,” Raffaele said, blinking. “Bro—seriously?”
I shot him a look.
He raised both hands. “Hey, I’m just saying what we’re all seeing.”
“You can’t blame me,” I muttered. “Any sane man would be turned on just looking at her.”
Or obsessed. Which was closer to the truth.
“Get me whatever information you can find on both of them,” I ordered.
“Yes, sir.” Raffaele straightened. “Also, we need to leave before midnight. The meeting with the South Africans was moved up. No idea why.”
“Fine.” I waved him off.
Once he left my office, I exhaled. For years, I tried to establish cooperation with the South African syndicate. They ignored every proposal, made it clear they had no interest in expanding.
And now suddenly… they wanted a meeting?
Something was off. And I hated surprises.
Once the deal was settled, I planned to visit my family. Maybe clear my mind.
But instead, my brain kept returning to the girl with the bronzed skin, masked face, and braids spilling like a waterfall as she bent backwards on that pole.
Why the hell couldn’t we find anything on her?
---
Ivy
A whole day inside.
A whole day wasted.
I’m an extrovert — being locked indoors for 24 hours felt like a slow death.
Lila and I kept waiting for my dad’s arrival. He promised he’d land tonight, and he wanted us to accompany him to some business dinner tomorrow at 7 p.m.
Perfect excuse to get dressed up.
We ordered new dresses:
Lila chose a deep red satin dress that hugged her curves.
I picked a black, backless, thin-strapped satin gown that hit mid-thigh.
We both grabbed matching black kitten heels.
Right now, I sat cross-legged on the plush carpet while Lila gently took down my braids.
“We should curl it,” she said.
“No, sleek bun.”
“Low ponytail.”
“No—wait.”
We argued for twenty minutes before settling on a glossy low bun with a single curl framing my face.
Tomorrow was going to be interesting.
---
Gabriel De Santis
We landed in New York at eight in the morning.
Raffaele and I drove straight to my secured townhouse in the suburbs — the kind of place no one could approach without getting flagged by eight cameras and a biometric gate.
Raffaele stepped inside and immediately checked his phone.
“What is it?” I asked.
“My PI,” he said slowly. “He still can’t find anything on the two mysterious strippers.”
I froze mid-step.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” he repeated. “Like they don’t exist. No IDs. No public social media. No record of employment with the club.”
I sank into the leather chair in my study.
“Interesting,” I murmured. “Why were they hard to find?”
Raffaele snapped his fingers. “Maybe they’re working with the Irish.”
I shot him a unimpressed look. “The Irish don’t send women.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Too misogynistic. They still see women as commodities.”
He wasn’t wrong. The Irish syndicate had been trying to force a deal with me so they could smuggle their “merchandise” through my ports.
That would never happen.
Not in my country. Not under my name.
Raffaele crossed his arms. “So what now?”
I stared at the paused video of Ivy — though I didn’t know her name yet — bent backwards on that stage. Her braids flowing. Her body moving like a challenge.
“Now?” I said quietly.
“Now I find her.”
- Writer
