HIS ADDICTIVE OBSESSION

CHAPTER 1 I was never supposed to exist. That thought hits me every time I step onto the stage at the Velvet Eclipse, the bass thumping low in my chest like a second heartbeat I can’t shake. The club smells like expensive cologne mixed with spilled whiskey and that faint, sweet haze of smoke machines. Red and gold lights sweep across the tufted velvet booths and dark wood panels, making everything feel heavy and intimate, like the whole room is holding its breath. My name is Nova Kane, and tonight my hips move on autopilot slow, deliberate rolls that make the thin straps of my black lace outfit cling to my skin. Men watch from the shadows, their eyes greedy, wallets open. I dance because every dollar keeps my mom’s hospital bills from swallowing us whole. I smile when they want me to, arch my back when the tips come, but inside I stay locked down. No one gets past the walls I built. Not here. Not ever. The song shifts into something slower, sultrier. I grip the pole, letting my body slide down it in one fluid motion, thighs parting just enough to tease. Sweat beads along my collarbone. The air feels thicker tonight, charged in a way that prickles the back of my neck. That’s when I feel it. His gaze. Not the usual hungry stares that slide over me like cheap hands. This one cuts straight through. From a corner booth half-hidden in shadow, a man sits alone. Dark suit, broad shoulders, the kind of stillness that makes the noise around him fade. I can’t see his face clearly, but I feel his eyes on every inch of me like fingers tracing my skin without permission. Heat blooms low in my belly, sudden and unwanted. My pulse kicks up, matching the bass. I finish the set, collect the bills scattered at my feet, and slip backstage. My hands shake a little as I wipe the glitter from my chest. Stupid. It’s just another night. Another rich guy who thinks he can buy whatever he wants. But when I come back out for the floor, he’s still there. Closer now, at the edge of the main room. He lifts one finger, signaling me over. No smile. No words. Just that quiet command. My stomach tightens. Part of me wants to walk the other way. The smarter part. The part that remembers every promise I made to myself after too many nights of empty touches. But the bills in my garter feel light tonight, and Mom’s next treatment is due in two days. I swallow the fear and walk toward him, heels clicking on the polished floor. Up close, he’s even more unnerving. Sharp jaw, dark hair, eyes like midnight water deep enough to drown in. He smells clean and expensive, like leather and something darker underneath. When I stop in front of him, he doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at me, slow and deliberate, like he’s already deciding how this night ends. “You dance like you’re angry at the world,” he says finally. His voice is low, smooth, with an edge that sends a shiver down my spine. I tilt my head, forcing a practiced smile. “Maybe I am. You here to fix that?” He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he reaches out, not grabbing, but brushing two fingers lightly along the outside of my thigh just below the hem of my outfit. The touch is barely there, yet it burns. My breath catches. Heat rushes between my legs, fast and confusing. I hate how my body reacts, like it’s been waiting for exactly this. “Sit,” he says. I should say no. I should walk away and find another table, another safe transaction. But something in his tone hooks me. Danger wrapped in silk. I lower myself onto the velvet seat beside him, close enough that our knees almost touch. The music pulses around us, but it feels distant now. He leans in slightly. “What’s your name?” “Nova,” I answer, keeping it short. Real names don’t belong here. He studies me for a long moment, like he’s peeling back layers I didn’t offer. “Nova,” he repeats, tasting it. His fingers trace another light path along my arm this time, sending sparks across my skin. “You feel trapped in here, don’t you?” The question lands too close. My chest tightens. I want to snap back, tell him he doesn’t know s**t about my life. Instead, I feel exposed, like he’s already seen the cracks I hide from everyone else. The fear that one bad night could end everything. The exhaustion of pretending I’m fine while my mom gets sicker in that tiny apartment across town. “I’m here to dance,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “Not talk.” A faint smile touches his lips there and gone. “Then dance for me.” He doesn’t flash cash like the others. He just waits, watching. And damn it, I do. I stand, turning slowly in front of him, letting the lights catch my skin as I move. Every sway of my hips feels heavier under his gaze. Every arch of my back sends that same unwanted heat curling through me. His eyes follow like a caress—possessive, patient, dangerous. When I finish and sink back down, my breathing is uneven. He reaches into his jacket and places a thick fold of bills on the table between us. More than I usually make in an hour. Way more. “That’s for the dance,” he says. Then his hand finds my knee again, thumb brushing the inside this time, slow and deliberate. “But I want more than that tonight.” My heart slams against my ribs. Fear and something darker twist together low in my gut. I know what “more” means in this place. I’ve done private rooms before. But this doesn’t feel like the usual transaction. This feels like stepping off a ledge. I look at the money, then back at him. At the way his eyes hold mine without blinking. At the quiet power rolling off him in waves. Part of me screams to take the cash and run. The other part the one that’s tired of surviving, tired of cold walls and empty nights leans in just a fraction. “What exactly are you offering?” I whisper. He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he stands, offering his hand. Tall, commanding, the kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be obeyed. “Come with me,” he says simply. The club noise swells around us laughter, bass, clinking glasses but all I hear is the blood rushing in my ears. My fingers hover near his. One touch. One decision. I know this could ruin everything I’ve scraped together. My safety. My control. The fragile life I built to protect my mom. But as his eyes lock on mine, dark and unrelenting, the same terrifying question burns in my chest: Do I take his hand… or walk away before this man pulls me into whatever storm he carries? I still don’t know the answer when my palm slides into his—warm, strong, and already feeling like a claim.