FORBIDDEN: CRAVING DADDY TOUCH

003

I grip the silver tray tighter, my knuckles turning white against the polished metal. The heavy crystal glass of the vintage Merlot wobbles slightly, the dark red liquid swirling dangerously close to the rim. I need this and I need the tip that might come with it if I can play my cards right. The hospital bill for my father is sitting on my kitchen counter like a death sentence, a terrifying number that grows every single day. The chemotherapy is eating him alive, and the insurance is a joke. I’m not here to party; I’m not here to get my p***y wet or find some d**k to ride for the night. I’m here to survive.

I weave through the mass of writhing bodies, dodging a groping hand that reaches for my waist and ignoring the drunk guy slurring about how much he wants to f**k my mouth. My eyes are locked on the VIP section in the back, specifically the booth occupied by the man who just walked in an hour ago. Even from across the room, he commands attention. He’s sitting alone, which is rare for this section, and he looks like he owns the place—sharp, tailored suit that probably costs more than my rent, a jawline that could cut glass, and dark eyes that scan the room with a bored, predatory detachment.

He is undeniably handsome. The kind of handsome that makes your c**t twitch and your thighs squeeze together instinctively. But I shove that reaction down into a dark, locked box in my mind. I don’t have the luxury of lust. My father is dying, and this man is a paycheck.

I take a breath, smoothing down the short hem of my uniform dress—a black scrap of fabric that barely covers my ass—and force a smile onto my face. I step up to the raised booth, the carpeted floor silencing the click of my heels.

"Good evening, sir," I start, my voice pitching higher than I intend, straining to be heard over the relentless beat of the techno music. "I have the—"

"I didn't order this," he snaps. He doesn’t even look at me at first. His eyes are fixed on the dance floor, watching a gaggle of girls gyrating together like they’re practicing for a porno.

The rejection hits me like a slap, but I hold my ground. "It’s a complimentary selection from the house, sir. A very robust—"

He cuts me off, finally turning his head. His eyes rake over me, slow and deliberate, stripping me bare without touching me. He looks at my t**s, straining against the tight fabric of my dress, then down to my legs, before finally meeting my eyes. There is no warmth there. No interest. Just a cold, arrogant dismissal.

"I don't want whatever swill you’re trying to pawn off on me," he says, his voice smooth but laced with venom. "And I certainly didn't order a desperate-looking waitress to hover over me like a bad smell. Take it away."

My cheeks flush, heat rising up my neck, but I clench the tray harder. I need this. "Sir, please. It’s excellent wine. If you would just—"

"Listen to me," he leans forward, the scent of his expensive musk washing over me, overpowering the smell of the club. "I know how this works. You bring the bottle, you smile pretty, you bat your eyelashes, and you hope I get drunk enough to tip you or maybe even let you suck my d**k in the bathroom. Is that the pitch?"

I blink, stunned by the crudeness. "I... I was just offering the wine."

"You’re looking for a payout," he continues, his lips curling into a sneer. "Just like every other slut in this place. You think flashing a little leg and acting polite makes you special? It doesn't. It just makes you boring. I’m not interested in your wine, and I’m certainly not interested in buying your time. Now f**k off."

The words hang in the air, heavy and degrading. I feel the eyes of the nearby patrons turning toward us, sensing the conflict. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that drowns out the bass. I try to stay professional, to remember the bill, the hospital, the beeping machines.

"I understand you aren't interested in the wine, sir," I say, my voice trembling slightly. "But there is no need to be rude. I am just doing my job."

"Your job is to serve me," he corrects, his eyes narrowing. "And right now, you’re failing. You’re standing there, breathing my air, looking at me like I’m supposed to care about your feelings. I don't. I don't care if you’re polite. I don't care if you're nice. I care about results. And you?" He laughs, a short, humorless sound. "You’re just a wet hole in a tight dress who doesn't know when to walk away."

Something inside me snaps. It’s not a slow break; it’s a violent shattering of the composure I’ve been holding together with duct tape and desperation. The fear for my father, the exhaustion of working double shifts, the sheer degradation of being treated like garbage by this arrogant, beautiful man—it all boils over.

"You know what?" I hiss, the polite facade melting away to reveal the rage underneath.

I lift the tray. With a sharp, jerking motion, I flip it over.

The crystal glass shatters against the edge of the table, and the dark red wine explodes outward. It splashes across his pristine white shirt, soaking into the expensive fabric in a heartbeat, running down his chest and staining his lap. A droplet hits his cheek, a dark s***h of crimson against his pale skin.

The silence at the table is instantaneous. The music seems to pause, though the bass still thuds in my chest.

The man stares down at his chest, stunned. He touches the wet fabric, then looks up at me, his eyes wide with disbelief. No one speaks to him like this. No one.

I am breathing hard, my chest heaving, my hands trembling with adrenaline. For a second, I consider jumping over the table. I want to pound on him, to scratch that arrogant look off his face, to make him feel a fraction of the humiliation he just poured on me. I take a step forward, my fists clenched.

"You absolute prick!" I scream, the words tearing out of my throat. "You think you’re so much better than everyone? You think your money makes you a god? You’re just a sad, lonely man who has to pay for attention because your personality is toxic! You don’t deserve a drink; you deserve to rot in your own filth!"

Suddenly, arms wrap around my waist from behind, pulling me back with a force that nearly knocks me off my heels.

"Ana, stop! Stop it!" Lila’s voice is in my ear, panicked and breathless. She’s dragging me backward, her heels scrabbling on the carpet. "Let’s go. Now."

"No!" I thrash against her, still staring at the man, who is wiping wine from his cheek with a look of dark fascination. "He’s a piece of s**t! All of you rich f***s, you think you can treat people like trash! You think money buys you respect? It buys you nothing but a wet shirt and a bad attitude!"

"Ana, shut up!" Lila hisses, practically lifting me off the ground as she pulls me toward the service corridor. "You’re going to get us fired!"

I let her drag me, but I keep my eyes locked on him. "I hope it stains!" I yell over the music. "I hope you never get the f*****g wine out!"

We burst through the velvet curtain into the service hallway, the noise of the club muffling instantly. Lila spins me around, pushing me against the wall. Her eyes are wide, her makeup smudged.

"Are you crazy?" she gasps, her hands shaking. "Do you know who that is? You can’t just pour wine on customers! You can’t assault them!"

"He was an asshole!" I shout, leaning my head back against the cool concrete, my heart still racing a mile a minute. "He called me a slut, Lila. He called me a wet hole."

Before Lila can respond, the heavy curtain parts again. Marcus, the head of security, bursts in. He’s a mountain of a man, usually calm, but right now his face is pale.

"Anastasia," he barks, his voice low and urgent. "What the hell happened?"

"She lost her mind," Lila says quickly, shooting me a warning look. "She just... snapped."

"Did you really dump a bottle of vintage Merlot on Mr. Sinclair?" Marcus asks, stepping closer, his bulk shadowing over me.

"He deserved it," I spit, crossing my arms over my chest. "He was disgusting."

Marcus rubs a hand over his bald head, sighing heavily. "Jesus. Look, stay here. Don't move. Don't leave this hallway. I have to go out there and try to save your job, though I don't know why I should bother."

He turns and storms back through the curtain. Lila looks at me, shaking her head, but I don't care. My blood is still hot, the anger pulsing through my veins like a second heartbeat. I close my eyes, seeing the red wine spreading across his white shirt, and a dark, twisted part of me feels satisfaction.

Out in the club, Marcus approaches the booth. The man—Mr. Sinclair—is sitting calmly, dabbing at his shirt with a napkin. He doesn't look angry anymore. He looks intrigued.

"Mr. Sinclair," Marcus says, bowing his head slightly, his tone apologetic and subservient. "I cannot apologize enough for the behavior of our staff. That was completely out of line. She will be terminated immediately, of course. We will comp your entire tab for the night, and of course, the dry cleaning bill is on us."

Mr. Sinclair holds up a hand, silencing the bouncer. He looks down at the stain, then turns his gaze toward the service curtain where Anastasia disappeared. His voice is deep, resonating with a strange calm.

"Terminate her?" he repeats slowly. "No."

"Sir?" Marcus blinks, confused. "She assaulted you."

"She did," Mr Sinclair says, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He leans back, the wet fabric sticking to his skin. "It’s been a long time since anyone has surprised me, Marcus. And it’s been a very long time since anyone looked at me with that much fire."

He gestures toward the curtain with his wine-stained fingers.

"Don't fire her," he says, his voice dropping an octave, turning serious. "Find out about her. I want to know everything. Her name, her schedule."

Mr Sinclair looks at the shattered glass on the table.

"Find out who she is," he commands. "Because I’m not done with her yet."