Isolde had recovered after two days of rest, never once stepping out of Room 429. But today, Nikhael dragged her out and forced her to work. Of course, there was no such thing as relaxation for her—Isolde was reminded once again that she wasn't a guest here.
She had been dancing for the past three days, and yet not a single "client" had chosen her. It left her wondering. Sure, she wasn't as gorgeous as the other whores—but she wasn't hideous either.
So why the hell had no one been willing to pay to sleep with her?
Suspicion started creeping in. Was this Tiffara's doing? That woman kept throwing glances her way—mocking smiles, all sharp teeth and smug eyes. She hadn't laid a finger on Isolde yet—likely because Liraine was constantly by her side—but behind her back? Who knew what she'd been plotting with her little crew?
And if this was Tiffara's sabotage? Well, Isolde almost wanted to thank her. If Tiffara thought blocking her from clients would shatter her pride, she couldn't be more wrong. Isolde was more than happy not having to fuck a single stranger.
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Severin was back. He'd been gone for a whole week. According to what little Liraine shared, he had flown to Mexico—but what he did there remained a mystery.
Now that he had returned, he was back in his usual spot—seated upstairs like a king, his men surrounding him. Nikhael stood beside him, reporting everything that had gone down while Severin was away.
Isolde danced like always—but this time, her gaze never left him. She locked eyes with Severin, who stared back at her with his usual flat, unreadable expression.
She knew her body couldn't compare to Tiffara's—but she danced with everything she had. She twirled around the pole and dipped low until her head nearly touched the floor, letting the angle pull open her top just enough to show the cleavage she barely had—nothing like Tiffara's, but it was something.
As she stepped off the stage, she passed Tiffara, who was clearly on her way toward Severin.
Isolde didn't even flinch—though she could feel the heat of Tiffara's glare burning into her skin.
Isolde climbed the stairs. Each step is deliberate. She stopped in front of Severin, who was smoking his cigar, and knelt before him.
She looked up, smiling, ignoring Nikhael's shock, Liraine's tense gaze—and Tiffara's firestorm of rage behind her. Her lips moved slowly, clearly enough for everyone to see. Words that made the corner of Severin's mouth curl into a wicked grin.
"Welcome back, Master."
All eyes were on Isolde. Even Malric, who had just returned from the underground via the private lift, paused—shocked—to see Isolde kneeling so boldly in front of Severin. But the room wasn't just watching her. Everyone was waiting to see how Severin would respond.
He lifted his hand—large, scarred, inked—and placed it on the top of her head, stroking her hair gently. As if to reward her. As if to acknowledge her daring little welcome. His fingers trailed down, brushing across her forehead, cheek, and lips, and finally stopping at her chin. He tilted her head up, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"So," he murmured. "How's work been? How many men have you served while I was gone?"
Before Isolde could answer, Tiffara stepped forward, laughing softly. She sat beside Severin, resting her head on his shoulder like she belonged there.
"Not a single client wanted to sleep with her," Tiffara spoke with a sideways glance at Isolde as if trying to emphasize the gap between them. Isolde was on the floor while she sat beside Severin like a queen on her throne.
One of Severin's brows lifted—perhaps surprised that not a single man had been willing to pay for Isolde. Isolde thought the same. There should've been at least one or two men who'd choose her.
Compared to the price of spending a night with the other whores here, Isolde was the cheapest.
Rates were usually based on whether the girl was a virgin, how beautiful she was, and how "exceptional" her service was. Everything was calculated—and Isolde sat at the bottom of it all.
Surely, there had to be some client out there who wanted to be warmed by a woman without paying Tiffara-level prices. But no. Not one had rented Isolde. Not even once. Even after Severin returned from Mexico.
"This won't do. You can't be here contributing nothing. I don't like useless people." Severin's grip on Isolde's chin tightened abruptly, making her flinch in pain.
"She's useless," Tiffara cut in again. "Why don't you just kill her, The Boss? There's no point in keeping her alive. She'll never help you get to Lucien. He's impossible to trace."
"You don't get to make life-and-death decisions here, Tiffara." Liraine's voice snapped through the room, sharp and biting. "Just because my brother fuck it with you doesn't mean you have the right to decide who lives or dies in this place."
She clearly wasn't having it—Tiffara's little attempt to get Isolde erased for good. But Severin wasn't paying attention to either of them. His eyes were still fixed on Isolde, still kneeling before him.
"Corvin will be here soon," he said. "You'll entertain him when he arrives. He hates waiting, so make sure he's satisfied while I take care of other matters before meeting him myself."
With that, Severin let go of her chin and stood. The sudden movement caused Tiffara, who had been resting her head on his shoulder, to fall sideways onto the sofa he'd just vacated.
Severin walked toward the private elevator—the same one Isolde had taken before. He left with Nikhael and several of his men, with Malric following close behind. Isolde felt a wave of nausea rises in her chest just thinking about what lay behind that elevator.
Corpses. Human organs. Illegal drugs. And who knows what else was hidden down there. From what she remembered, the underground corridor had dozens of rooms—and every single one of them held something that defied all logic and morality.
Isolde didn't want to know more. Just seeing the corpse in the operating room had almost made her pass out. Her gaze shifted to Tiffara, who was staring right at her with a dagger-sharp look. Of course, she was angry. Isolde had expected her little move would rattle Tiffara's pride.
"You'll never get what you want," Tiffara spat. Isolde tilted her head, her eyes narrowing into a smirk that was nothing short of mockery.
"Really? And what makes you so sure I'll fail? Because my body's not as good as yours?
When it comes to experience, I've had plenty, too, from piano tutors to my friend's father. Sure, I'm not at your level… yet. But if something as small as this already gets under your skin…"
She leaned in slightly. "Now I'm curious—just how far can I go before you lose it completely?"
With that, Isolde stood and walked away, leaving Tiffara behind. She couldn't afford to disappoint The Boss again.
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Isolde remembered the name Corvin. Severin had mentioned it multiple times—even on the very first day she was caught sneaking into this place. When Isolde stepped into the VIP room, the space was simple: a long leather sofa, a glass table, an ice bowl, some glasses, and a few bottles of alcohol.
The room was empty when she entered—but before she could even take another step, the door behind her swung open. A man entered, his height nearly matching Severin's. Dirty blond hair. Greyish eyes. One brow lifted as he laid eyes on her. His forehead creased slightly as he learned her face.
"You oddly look familiar," the man said, settling himself onto the sofa. He jerked his chin toward the table, giving Isolde a clear signal: "Pour me a drink".
Is this man Corvin? Isolde poured the liquor from the bottle on the table into the glass she had already filled with ice. The man's eyes followed her every move, and when Isolde looked up, she was startled to see him staring back at her—with a sharp, unblinking gaze.
"You have beautiful eyes," the man said, still watching her closely.
Isolde didn't know what to do next. Should she kneel in front of him now? Unzip his pants? Entertain him while they waited for Severin? The thought made her stomach churn.
"You look familiar... but also like a stranger at the same time," Corvin murmured, swirling his drink before taking a small sip. Then his eyes returned to her.
"What's your name?"
"Isolde," she replied curtly.
"Your name's unfamiliar. Are you new here?" he asked again. Isolde nodded. She didn't need to say more. But for some reason, her mouth moved on its own, offering him the explanation he was likely grasping for.
"Maybe I look familiar because I resemble a woman named Renata. That's what people say around here… that I look just like her."
Her words triggered something. Recognition flashed across Corvin's face as his eyes widened. He scanned her—from head to toe. Slowly. Intently. Then, the corners of his lips curled into a grin.
"I didn't expect Severin to actually find a woman who resembles his dead lover... Just because he missed her. Even though she died by his own hands. Died carrying their child. Severin truly is a man whose thoughts are impossible to read."
Another piece of the puzzle. Another dark truth about Severin and about Renata, the woman Isolde was constantly compared to. She had died carrying Severin's child. Isolde couldn't stop the question from creeping into her mind.
Why? Why did Severin kill her?
He once said he destroyed anything that made him weak. But was he truly that cruel, Cruel enough to murder the woman he loved… and their unborn child… just because he couldn't stand having a weakness?
Ah, Isolde had forgotten. Of course, Severin was capable of doing such a thing. Severin wasn't ordinary. He was cruel. Lucien had already warned her once about how ruthless Severin could be,
and just last week, Isolde had experienced that cruelty firsthand.
Severin had thrown her to his men to be passed around. He had killed one of them without even blinking. He'd sold the organs of his own men who dared betray him. A man that merciless, of course, he was capable of anything, even killing the woman he loved and the unborn child she carried.
…