Chapter 8: A Devil’s Bargain (And the Price of Survival)

Cady's POV

I never imagined this is what he meant. But of course, what else did I expect? 

The air is thick, reeking of alcohol, sweat, and something darker I can't name. It clings to my skin, crawling under my flesh like an unwelcome guest. I feel filthy just standing backstage, clutching my arms as though I can protect myself from what's about to happen. But I can't. 

I look down at the "costume" laid out for me, if you can even call it that. It's a joke. Strings. Just strings. There's more thread in a sewing kit than in this thing they're telling me to put on.

The woman barking at me—this fat, loud-mouthed hag with a vile tongue—spits more words at me, half in English, half in Spanish. 

"Hurry up! ¡Ponte esto, estúpida! You think I have all night for you, huh?!"

She's pacing around, her greasy hair slicked back into a tight bun that's fraying at the edges. Her face, bloated and red with anger, turns towards me again.

"Listen, Sir Tate told me you gotta wear this, so put it on!" She throws the scraps of fabric at me, and they land in a crumpled heap at my feet. 

I stare at it. Then at her. "No," I whisper, almost too quietly for her to hear.

"What was that?" she screeches, stepping toward me, her chest heaving with fury. "You think you have a choice, puta? This isn't a game. You're the dessert, girl. You're the last act. And when Sir Tate gives an order, you obey!"

Her voice is grating, like nails on a chalkboard. I can feel my blood boiling, but what can I do? Fight her? Scream? Would anyone even care if I did?

I peek through the heavy black curtain, just enough to catch a glimpse of the men beyond it. And there they are. A sea of them. Pigs in suits, lounging back in their cushioned chairs, drinks in hand, eyes hungry. It makes my stomach turn. These men are the elite, the ones who run the top industries and organizations in the country. They look so... pathetic.

How could Tate think this was okay? How could he send me here?

Before I can think of an answer, the woman grabs my arm, her fat fingers digging into my skin. "Let's go! The girls will help you get ready."

I'm dragged into a room filled with barely clothed women, some of them still adjusting their outfits from their performances. They don't even look at me, don't say a word. They're used to this. This is their life. But it's not mine. I don't belong here.

"Get her dressed," the woman barks at them.

Two girls come toward me, their eyes dull, lifeless, and before I know it, they're yanking at my clothes, pulling at my hair, forcing me into the strings that pass as a costume. I try to fight, I struggle, but it's useless. Their hands are everywhere, and within minutes, I'm standing there, barely covered, exposed in ways I've never been before.

I can't even look at myself. I can't.

"Ten minutes," the woman snaps, glaring at me as if this is somehow my fault. "When the lights hit, you go out there and perform. Sir Tate's orders."

Sir Tate's orders. Of course.

$$$

The stage is blinding when the lights hit me, and for a second, I'm dizzy, the heat of the spotlights making me feel like I'm about to pass out. I stumble, but the girls behind me shove me forward, and I'm out there—center stage. The woman introduces me, her voice a sickly sweet mockery.

"And now, gentlemen, for the final act of the night... Sir Tate's special little treat."

I can't breathe. The music starts. It's loud, too loud, pounding in my ears. The room seems to spin around me, and I can feel their eyes on me. All of them. 

The men are watching, waiting. They want a show. But I don't know what to do. What am I supposed to do?

From behind me, the woman throws something at my feet—a whip. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? I stare at it, frozen, while the music blares on.

"Move!" she hisses. "Perform! Or Sir Tate will hear about it."

I grip the whip, my hands shaking. My heart is pounding so hard I think it might burst out of my chest. But I don't move. I can't. I'm not a performer. I'm not a stripper. I'm not... this.

The men are murmuring now, getting impatient. I hear them muttering, sneering, calling out insults. I catch snippets of their disgusting comments:

"Not too bad."

"Looks dry."

"Flat breasts."

"Short hair."

"Freaky."

What the fuck are they saying? I can feel the bile rising in my throat. They see me as nothing. Nothing but meat.

Suddenly, one of them drags me off the stage, pulling me into the crowd. I stumble, my knees hitting the ground hard. My head spins from the fall, and before I can get up, I feel it—a foot, pressing against my face. 

They laugh. They're laughing at me. 

I look up, and the man is grinning down at me, his foot pushing harder. "Come on, sweetheart," he says, his voice dripping with condescension. "Give me a lap dance, and maybe I'll throw you some cash."

I shove his foot off me, disgusted. The men around him burst into laughter, clearly amused by my disobedience.

The room is spinning now. Their voices get louder, more lewd, more demanding. They want me to perform, to do something "interesting." 

And then I do something stupid. So, so stupid.

I climb onto one of the tables, my body shaking with anger and humiliation. "You," I shout, my voice trembling. "You're all pigs. You think you own this world? You think you can just buy and sell people like me? You're the reason this world is so messed up. Men like you. Monsters."

The room falls silent for a second, and I think—just for a second—that maybe they'll listen. But then they start laughing again. Louder this time. 

I feel my face burn with shame. What did I expect?

They start reaching for me, grabbing at my legs, my arms, pulling me down like I'm nothing more than a piece of meat. Panic sets in, and I'm about to scream when—

"Enough."

His voice booms through the room, silencing everyone.

I turn, my heart sinking, and there he is. Tate Mercer, sitting in the VVVIP lounge with a man I don't recognize. He's watching me with that same, unreadable expression, his fingers tapping idly on the armrest of his chair.

"Come here," he commands coldly.

I bite my lip, my heart pounding, knowing I can't disobey. Slowly, I climb off the table, my body trembling. I hate him. I hate him so much.

I walk toward him, the crowd parting as I approach, and when I'm close enough, he smirks. "I knew you'd try to be the Sparky I know," he says, his tone mocking.

A man standing beside him opens a briefcase, revealing stacks of cash. Tate takes one, then another, stacking the bundles on the table in front of him. "This," he says, "can pay off all your parents' bills for ten lifetimes."

I stare at the money, my mind spinning. Could this really solve everything?

"All you have to do is one simple thing," he continues, leaning forward. His hand reaches for me, tearing at the small cloth covering my chest. I yelp, instinctively covering myself as the men laugh.

Tate ignores them, his eyes never leaving mine. "Come closer," he orders.

I step forward, my heart hammering in my chest.

He grabs me, pulling me roughly into him, his breath hot against my ear. "See him?" He points to the man beside him, young, well-dressed, but with a coldness in his eyes that makes my stomach turn.

Tate smiles, and it's a cruel smile, one that sends chills down my spine. "Just give him head, Sparky. Do that, and all the money is yours."

I feel the world tilt beneath me. No. This can't be happening.

Tate raises his voice, addressing the room. "I know you all want a piece of my special, but it's best you see her in action first."

The men cheer, clapping and whistling. They're excited, waiting for the show to begin.

Tate looks at me again, his eyes dark. He grabs my breast again, squeezing hard,making me wince. Then, with a shove, he pushes me toward the man.

"Suck away," he says, his voice dripping with cruelty.