Chapter 2

Genevieve

I stood there, the air in the room suddenly feeling nonexistent. My chest heaved. Beads of perspiration formed on my head despite the functioning air conditioning in the office. I looked at Arthur—my "Uncle" Artie—and for the first time in twenty years, I didn't recognize the man sitting across from me. He had become a completely different person.

"Uncle Artie, please forgive me," I whispered, my voice cracking. "I don't know why… I can't…" I stuttered. "It was a mistake. A one-time thing, I swear!" I lied through my teeth. "It won't happen again. You can't tell my dad. He shouldn't know of any of this. You know what he'll do. He'll disown me. He'll kill me."

He didn't blink. He just tapped his phone against his palm, the device containing the video that would end my life as I knew it. "Richard trusts me, Genevieve. He trusts me to look out for his little girl. And what do I find? I find you on a stage, selling yourself to strangers for a few hundred dollars."

"It's not like that! It's just... it's money, unc—"

"Money you couldn't have gotten out of your father? Your mother? Me?" He cut in angrily. "Couldn't you have come to me about anything you need, Genevieve? Have I ever told you no?"

I shook my head slowly.

"Have I ever refused you a thing?" He inquired.

"No," I mouthed. It was the truth. Father and uncle had always spoiled me silly. Uncle especially, I got every birthday present I wanted, no matter how outrageous or expensive it was.

"Then what did you want that you couldn't come to me for?"

I was rebellious. I couldn't be bothered about my father's plans for me: go for the right college, get a degree in business, join the family business, and maybe one day lead it as the only child of my parents. I wanted to be wild and free like the other girls. I didn't like that I had to have this perfect image, or it would impact my father's image or crumble the whole damn business. I was sick of that life.

"I wanted to have fun. I needed some kind of independence."

"And now you've found a different kind of dependence," he said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on my arms stand up. "I'm not sending it to your father."

I let out a sigh of relief.

"Not yet…"

My heart sank again.

"But there is a price for my silence."

"What do you want?" I begged, stepping toward him, my hands shaking. "Money? I can give you whatever I've made. Just delete it. Please."

Arthur leaned back against his table, his eyes tracking the movement of my throat as I swallowed. "I don't want your money, Genevieve. I want to see what all those men at the club saw. I want to see what you were so eager to show them but kept hidden from me."

The silence that followed was deafening. I felt a chill sweep through me that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. "Uncle Artie, stop. You're my uncle. This is—this is sick."

"I'm not your uncle by blood, and we both know it," he snapped, his gaze hardening. "And right now, I'm the only thing standing between you and the street, if your father ever sets eyes on this." He gestured to the iPad on the table. "Strip."

My eyes flew open. "Uncle…" My voice croaked as I stood there in disbelief. "You can't be serious. This has to be some sick twisted joke…"

But when I looked at him, he still had that serious expression on his face.

"Uncle Artie…"

"Strip!" He commanded again.

"No," I gasped, backing away until my calves hit the edge of the sofa. My heart was racing in my chest. It was fear, shock, but there was also something there, a little bit of curiosity. I wondered where this was going. "Someone could walk in. Your staff, Miss Elena—Uncle, please don't do this." I tried to plead with him.

"The door is locked. The blinds are drawn. And I'm losing my patience." He held up the phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. "Do you want to be the one to tell your father, or are you going to show me why you're the star of the show?"

My heart hammered against my ribs. I looked at the door, then back at him. He had the same cold, unbothered look on his face. I reached for the zipper at the back of my dress. My fingers were so numb I could barely grip it.

The sound of my zip felt so loud in the quiet room. I let the fabric slip off my shoulders. It pooled at my waist for a second before I let it drop to the floor. I stood there in my peach matching lacy underwear, the air hitting my skin and making me shiver.

"Keep going," he commanded. His voice wasn't loud, but it had a weight that kept me frozen to the spot.

"Uncle Artie, I can't..."

"Everything, Genevieve. I want to see every last bit of what you've been hiding. Shoes stay on. Everything else goes."

I felt the heat of shame rising up my neck, reddening my cheeks. With trembling hands, I unhooked my bra. It joined the dress on the marble floors. Then the lace panties. I stepped out of them, leaving me in nothing but my five-inch black stilettos.

I felt exposed in a way I never did at the club. There, the lights were dim, and the men were faceless men I didn't know. Here, in the bright, familiar light of his office, a place I had come to many times as a child, under the gaze of the man who had bought me my first bike, I felt vulnerable.

I instinctively crossed my arms over my breasts, squeezing my thighs together to hide myself.

"Don't do that," he barked.

I jumped at the sharpness of his tone.

"Hands at your sides. Stand straight. I want to see you."

I slowly dropped my arms. I felt my skin tingling under the intensity of his stare. He didn't move. He didn't come closer. He just sat there, plopping down into his heavy leather chair, his legs spread, his hands gripping the armrests. He was gawking—drinking me in with those intense dark eyes. His eyes moved from my face, down my neck, lingering on my breasts, until I could feel my nipples visibly harden. I blamed it on the cold, but deep down I knew it was not simply cold.

He traced the line of my stomach and the curve of my hips. His eyes wandered between my legs, and I couldn't be more thankful in that moment for the light stubble of hair that covered my pussy. His gaze was so fixated on my legs that I feared no patch of hair was enough to hide me from him.

He stayed like that for what felt like hours, though it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. The only sound was the heavy thrum of my own pulse in my ears.

Finally, he exhaled a long, shaky breath and leaned back. The predatory glint in his eyes softened just a fraction, replaced by a dark, smug, satisfied look.

"That'll do," he said, his voice raspy.

I didn't move, unsure if he was finished.

"I said that'll do, Genevieve. Get dressed and get out."

I scrambled for my clothes, clutching the dress to my chest like a shield as I hurried to put it back on. My hands were still shaking so badly that I fumbled with the zipper. I didn't look at him, but I could feel his eyes on my back the entire time.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he called out just as I reached the door. "Don't be late."

I didn't answer. I just ran.