Ours, Sweetheart; Triple Temptations

"You think I give a f**k about your pathetic excuses, you old b***h? Your useless husband took my money, and now you’re going to pay up, or I’ll drag both you and that little whoring daughter of yours out into the street!" The sound of raised voices shattered out of our cramped living room before I even got my key in the lock. Panic surged through me. I slammed the front door open and rushed in, stepping straight between my mother and the towering, broad shouldered man looming over her. "Get your hands off her!" I yelled, my heart thumping wildly against my ribs. "I told you I promised to pay! Why the hell are you in here harassing my mom?" Varcelli turned his cold, sneering gaze onto me, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. "Today is the day, Cassie. Deadline's up." "I begged you for a week more! Just one more week!" I snapped, my hands shaking as I reached into my bag. I hauled out a thick, heavy stack of hundred dollar bills, the cash I’d made at the club just hours ago and slammed it onto the glass coffee table. Varcelli froze. His eyes widened slightly as he stared at the mountain of cash. Up until now, I’d only been able to scrape together pennies and pocket change to throw at him. He picked up the stack, flipping through the bills with a sharp, calculating flick of his thumb, but his shock quickly turned back into a scowl. "This is barely half of what your deadbeat father owes us," Varcelli growled, his voice rising as he flared out in anger. He turned to the two hulking men standing behind him. "Scatter this f*****g place! Teach them a lesson about shorting me!" "No!" I threw myself over my mother, locking my arms around her trembling frame to make sure no one touched her. Glass shattered in the kitchen, books were ripped off the shelves, and furniture crashed around us as Varcelli’s men tore our tiny home apart. When he finally held up a hand to stop them, the apartment was in ruins. Varcelli stepped up to me, pressing his boot against the frame of the couch. "Next week," he warned, his voice low and deadly. "I’ll be back. And if the rest of the money isn't ready, I won't listen to any sob story that touches the heart. You'll pay with more than cash." The moment the heavy door slammed shut behind them, the terrifying silence hit us. My mother pulled back, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and horror as she stared at the mess, then down at me. "Cassie... where did you get that kind of money?" Her voice cracked. "I know a single shift working as a bartender doesn't pay anything close to that. Don't tell me... don't tell me you've started sleeping with men your father's age for cash?" "No! Mom, no, I swear!" Tears stung my eyes, but I shook my head violently. "I would never do that, I swear to God!" "Then where, Cassie? Where?!" "I stripped!" I blurted out, the truth spilling over my lips. "Just for one night, Mom! That's all! And I wore a mask the entire time, nobody saw my face, no one touched me, nothing else happened!" My mother gasped, a broken sob tearing from her throat. She pulled me tightly into her arms, burying her face in my shoulder as her tears soaked my shirt. "I'm so sorry... Oh God, Cassie, I'm so sorry for putting you into this hardship. You shouldn't be doing this..." "It's not your fault," I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut and holding her tight. "It's not your fault, Mom. It's his." It was always him. My father, a pathetic drunkard and a ruthless gambler who had packed up and vanished into thin air the second his debts caught up to him. He abandoned us to drown in his mess. Ever since he ran away, every kind of dangerous man in the city had been knocking on our door, demanding repayment for debts we weren't even sure he actually owed. And now, with Varcelli giving us seven days, I knew one night behind a mask wasn't going to be enough to keep us alive. I spent the rest of the night cleaning up the wreckage Varcelli’s men had left behind. Broken porcelain, torn sofa cushions, flipped tables, it took until sunrise to make the place look remotely liveable again. By the time my mother finally drifted off into an exhausted, tear-stained sleep, my hands were tired, and my mind was racing with one harsh reality. I needed a fresh start, and I needed serious money. Fast. My mother stayed awake for three straight days, watching me like a hawk. She knew me too well, she knew that I was desperate enough to put myself back in a corset, behind a mask, or into whatever dark corner of the city would trade quick cash for my dignity. So she guarded the front door, kept the window locks checked, and refused to let me out of her sight. It wasn't until midnight on the third night, when exhaustion finally claimed her and her heavy breathing filled the tiny bedroom, that I moved. I grabbed my jacket, slipped my shoes on without letting the soles scuff the floor, and backed out the front door. Four days left before Varcelli came back. I didn't have a choice, which was how I found myself walking through the doors of The Mystic Room an hour later. It was the most exclusive VIP lounge in the city, the kind of dark, opulent speakeasy where politicians, criminals, and billionaires rubbed shoulders. The pay was triple what I made at my old dive bar, but the patrons were ten times more dangerous. "Keep your head down, don't stare at the high rollers, and never, ever cut off a Mikaelson," the manager had warned me during a five minute rush of an orientation. Everyone in the underworld knew the Mikaelson name. They were ruthless, untouchable, and deadly, the kind of men you avoided eye contact with if you valued your life. I didn't know what they looked like up close, but the ghost stories about them were enough to make my stomach turn. Now, two hours into my shift, the bass from the main floor hummed through the floorboards. The VIP bar was filled with the scent of spilled gin, expensive cigars, and the sound of very loud music. I was standing behind the counter, staring blankly at a crystal tumbler while running a rag over it for the fifth time, my mind racing. Three days wasted. Four days left. "Hey. Speakeasy's open, or are you just paid to stand there looking useless?" The voice hit me like a splash of ice water, it was harsh. I snapped my head up. Standing on the other side of the was a man who looked like he had been sculpted out of a god statue and bad intentions. He has the perfect broad shouldered, while wearing a bespoke black jacket with the collar slightly unbuttoned, his sharp jawline was set in a tight, angry grip. His knuckles was dusted with fresh, faint red scrapes as if he’d just put someone’s head through a brick wall as he tapped an irritated beat against the counter. "Bring me bourbon. Triple glass. With three ice cubes," the man snapped, "And make it before I decide to come behind that bar and handle it myself.” I scrambled to grab a crystal triple rocks glass, my hands trembling as I dropped in three ice cubes and poured the triple bourbon. My heart was hammering against my ribs, but as I slid the glass across the counter, his dark eyes roamed over me with sickening, slow checkout. He didn't just look at me, he appraised me like property. His gaze dragged down the neckline of my dress, lingering on my waist before snapping back up to my face. "What's your price?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. My jaw tightened. A hot, volatile spike of anger burned straight through my fear. "If you're s*x starved, there's a whole stage of girls dancing over there," I spat out, pointing a rigid finger toward the far side of the VIP lounge where two women were swinging around brass poles. "Pick one of them to f**k. You rich men with your disgusting, trashy attitudes think you can just buy anything because you've got money to burn." I held my breath, bracing for him to snap my neck right over the counter. Instead, a slow, dark smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He picked up his bourbon, took a slow sip, and set it down. "I'm in a good mood tonight," he murmured, his dark eyes flashing with something unreadable. "You're lucky." He turned and melted back into the shadowed VIP crowd before I could unleash every single ounce of rage, stress, and misery I was holding inside onto him. I slumped against the back counter, clutching my chest as my heart hammered violently. "Cassie!" My boss, Marcus, slid behind the bar, his eyes wide and practically sparkling with excitement. He grabbed my shoulders, pulling me away from the register. "You said you felt like stripping tonight, right? Guess what?" Marcus grinned, leaning in close. "The pay for the private floor tonight is ten times what you made at that dive bar last time." I almost screamed for joy right there on the floor. Ten times? That was thousands in a single night. "And guess what else?" Marcus whispered, his voice trembling with sheer glee. "If you do whatever they want, they'll pay you a hundred times more." I literally screamed this time, slapping a hand over my mouth to muffle the sound. A hundred times. Tears pricked my eyes. I could pay off Varcelli's f*****g debt in full tomorrow morning. I could pack up my mom, buy a train ticket, and get her far away from this wretched, rotten city my father had polluted for us. "Where?" I begged, gripping Marcus’s arms. "Where do I go?" "Take off the gown," Marcus instructed, nodding toward the heavy, floor length silk robe I’d wrapped around myself to cover the skimpy lace costume underneath until it was time to step on stage. I whipped the gown off, letting it pile onto the floor, exposing the sheer lace mask over my upper face and the micro thong set hugging my hips. Marcus led me down a long room that branched far away from the noisy main club. He stopped outside a pair of massive double doors, he knocked twice, and pushed them open. The room inside was a sprawling, hotel suite filled with the scent of expensive cigars, fine whiskey, and money. Yes, I can smell money! Sitting on plush leather couches around a low glass table were three men. My breath hitched in my throat. They didn't even look human, they were gods in the form of men. They had sharp, immaculate features, imposing frames, and an aura so deadly. Then my eyes landed on the man sitting in the center. It was the arrogant bastard I had literally just insulted at the bar. Marcus leaned toward my ear, his face split into a massive, hopeful smile as he whispered, "These are the three Mikaelson brothers. This could be your way out of poverty forever if you treat them well." Treat who...? The f**k? The man I just called s*x starved and disgusting to his face... was a Mikaelson. Fine. My f*****g running mouth and anger issues had finally led me straight to my death.