Masked Proposal

It was another night again.

Ayra slipped the zipper of her mini bag shut, her fingers slightly trembling. Inside was her outfit for the night: a fitted black leather crop top and high-waisted shorts that clung to her like second skin, paired with fishnet tights and ankle boots. It wasn't much, but it was the uniform—what the club expected of her.

She hated it. Every thread of it. But she needed the money.

Her stepmother didn't care about her, and her father had long since stopped pretending she mattered. All the family's wealth went straight to her stepsisters, who spent it like they printed it themselves—luxury clothes, spa weekends, online shopping hauls. Meanwhile, Ayra scraped by.

She worked hard for every penny she earned. She had to.

Loneliness had been her only companion for years. Her ex-boyfriend—the one she thought truly loved her—had left her for someone more "exciting." More "fun." It shattered her, not just because of the betrayal, but because it reinforced what she feared most: that maybe she was never enough.

The only one who had ever seen her tears was Jenna—her best friend. But even Jenna was hardly around. Her job had her constantly flying across states, cities, borders. She was doing well for herself, financially stable and always offering help… but Ayra couldn't bring herself to accept it. Pride? Maybe. But more than that—it was dignity.

It was almost 9:00 PM.

She should've left the house already. But tonight wasn't going to be easy. Not after what her stepmother saw—those bruises and hickeys Ayra didn't even remember getting. The woman had looked at her like filth, called her names she wasn't. Ayra wasn't like the other girls at the club who sold themselves. She had one rule—no sex. She danced, yes. Stripped, yes. But her body was hers. Always would be.

And the mask—her mask—kept her anonymous. Until that night. That night she woke up naked beside a man she didn't know. A man who reeked of wealth and power. She still didn't understand what had happened.

Shaking off the thought, she grabbed her phone, stuffed it into her jeans pocket, and tightened the bag straps across her back. Her eyes darted toward the bedroom door, then shifted toward the window.

Thank God her room was on the ground floor.

She'd done this before—jumped out to escape, to breathe, to live—and tonight was no different. She swung the window open and crouched on the frame, glancing left and right like a thief in the night. Then, without hesitation, she jumped.

The landing was smooth.

Dusting herself off, she hurried down the quiet street and flagged a passing taxi.

"To Club Nirvana" she said, voice low.

The driver nodded. No questions asked.

And just like that, Ayra disappeared into the night—mask in her bag, bruises under makeup, and a heavy heart tucked behind her ribs.

---

Adrian stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse suite, a glass of scotch in his hand, untouched. The ice had started to melt, but he didn't care. His mind was elsewhere.

He was thinking about Ayra Wilder—which was strange. He never thought about women. Not after everything. It made him hate her more.

He now knew who she really was. Her identity, her background, everything about her was inside the file that lay neatly on his desk. She had been just a nameless face before, but now... she was real. And that made her a problem.

He turned away from the window and walked to his table, sitting down like a king returning to his throne. His presence alone commanded the room.

On top of the file sat a pair of golden earrings—hers. Fake, but beautiful.

He stared at them for a second, then picked them up and dropped them into the drawer without a word. Out of sight. But not out of mind.

He opened the file slowly, eyes scanning the contents. A photo of her ID. Background check. Occupation. Stripper. Financial records. Family ties. He scoffed.

"Pathetic," he muttered to himself.

He hated her for that night. Hated her for touching him. For making him lose control. For stepping into his world like a whisper and leaving like a ghost.

But most of all, he hated that something inside him didn't want to let it go.

He leaned back in his chair, jaw clenched, eyes burning holes into her file.

He was going to ruin her.

Whatever fantasy she lived in—whatever safety net she thought she had—he'd tear it apart.

No one made a fool out of Adrian Harrison and walked away untouched.

---

Ayra at the Club

The music was already pulsing through the walls by the time Ayra stepped out of the taxi. Neon lights glowed like fire across the entrance of Club Nirvana, casting everything in seductive shadows. She adjusted the hoodie over her head, her mask tucked safely in her mini bag. No one could see her face—not tonight.

She slipped through the back entrance, past security who already knew her by figure and walk. No greetings. Just nods. That was how it always was.

Inside, the dressing room was a blur of glitter, perfume, heels, and chaos. Girls were fixing wigs, adjusting straps, smearing lip gloss on like armor. Ayra slid into the corner quietly, changing fast into her outfit—a black lace two-piece that hugged her curves and shimmered slightly under the light. A matching garter belt. Fishnet tights. Platform heels. Her signature.

She slipped on the half-face mask—black, simple, elegant. It covered the top of her face just enough to protect her identity but still left her lips bare. It gave her mystery. Power. Control.

Or at least the illusion of it.

She checked herself in the mirror. The bruises were gone, hidden beneath perfect makeup. No one would guess what she had been through just a night ago. No one would even care.

Her shift was about to begin. She took a deep breath and walked out of the dressing room like she owned the stage.

The club roared with music. Lights flashed. Eyes followed.

Ayra walked onto the stage, hips swaying to the rhythm, mind blank.

This wasn't Ayra Wilder, the broken girl from the Wilder house. This was Vixen, the girl with no past, no pain, no shame.

The spotlight hit her.

And she danced.

She danced like the world wasn't burning. Like she didn't wake up in a stranger's bed last night with bruises she couldn't explain. Like her life wasn't one breath away from crumbling.

She danced because it was the only thing that made her forget.

As the beat dropped and the crowd erupted in cheers, Ayra moved with practiced grace—sensual, confident, untouchable. Tips were already being thrown her way, bills landing like petals at her feet.

She bent low, spun slowly, rising with a smirk hidden beneath her mask.

Then she felt it.

A hand—firm and intentional—resting on her waist from behind. Not rough, not frantic… but confident, claiming. Her body tensed for a split second before instinct kicked in.

She turned halfway, her eyes locking with the man who dared.

He was seated at a private booth near the edge of the stage, half-hidden in the shadows. Designer suit. Gold watch. A face too calm, too clean, too dangerous. His smirk was subtle, as if he knew exactly what kind of effect he had.

His fingers didn't move. They just rested there, warm against her skin, drawing her closer.

She could have pulled away. She should have.

But this was the club. This was Vixen. And Vixen didn't break character.

So she let him.

She leaned into the touch, arching slightly, playing it off like it was part of the show. Her fingers slid down his shoulder as she danced around him, his eyes never leaving hers, not even for a second.

She didn't know his name. Didn't want to.

But something about the way he looked at her—it made her skin crawl and tingle all at once.

He was dangerous.

And she could feel it in her bones.

Ayra was already halfway through her second set when it started.

The man had been sitting close to the stage, throwing bills like they meant nothing. At first, she thought he was just another drunk customer, enjoying the show. But then his hand touched her—low, firm, right on her ass.

She flinched.

Still, she kept dancing. She was used to creeps. One touch. It happens. She could overlook it.

But then he got bolder.

His hand slid up her body, cupping her breasts over the thin fabric. She gasped quietly, taking a step back. He smirked and grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward him.

"Relax, baby," he whispered with alcohol-soaked breath. "I'm just giving you a tip."

Ayra struggled. "Let go."

He didn't.

He dragged her off the stage, toward a dark corner of the club where the music boomed louder, and no one was watching. Her heart raced. Her heels scraped against the floor as she tried to resist, but he was too strong. His hands were all over her now, trying to pull her dress down.

She wanted to scream, to fight back harder, but this was her job—dancing, teasing, seduction. It was expected. But this... this was too far.

Tears stung her eyes.

Then everything stopped.

A hand grabbed the man's shoulder and yanked him away from her with terrifying force. Ayra stumbled backward, breathing hard, her eyes wide.

The man who saved her wore a black nose mask that covered most of his face, but his eyes—God, his eyes were gray. Cold and sharp, yet burning with fury.

Without a word, he threw a punch.

The harasser tried to fight back, but it was useless. The masked stranger moved like a storm—fast, brutal, and controlled. His fists landed like thunder, and the man who touched her was on the ground within seconds, bleeding and crawling away in shame.

Ayra stared, stunned, unable to move.

The stranger turned slightly, his gray eyes catching hers. For a moment, everything else faded. The noise. The crowd. The flashing lights. All she could see were those eyes.

And something inside her stirred.

She didn't even notice the man flee. She didn't even hear the gasps from the few that witnessed the scene. She just stood there, breathless, trying to understand what had just happened—and who that masked man was.

Suddenly, the man who had just saved her turned into something else entirely.

His grip on her wrist tightened—tight enough that she winced. Ayra gasped softly, her heels dragging across the floor as he pulled her with force. This time, there was no gentleness, no hint of a hero. Just cold, raw power.

"Let go," she tried to say, but her voice was weak, and he didn't even flinch.

He said nothing, just kept walking like she was some object he needed to move. They passed the stage, the lounge, the bar—straight to the VIP area she had never stepped foot in. It was a place reserved for the wealthy, powerful, and dangerous. No dancer went there unless invited, and Ayra had never imagined she'd enter it this way—dragged in by a stranger who wore a black nose mask like some dark avenger.

The bouncer at the VIP entrance didn't even question him. Just opened the door.

Inside, the lights were dim and gold, the chairs sleek leather, the air thick with expensive perfume and something darker—control. Dominance.

He finally let her go and pointed at a chair across the low table. Ayra hesitated, rubbing her wrist. "W-What is this? Why am I here?"

He didn't answer.

His gray eyes turned wild for a split second—cold, sharp, terrifying. Nothing like the ones that had caught her attention earlier. These weren't the eyes of a savior. They were the eyes of a man who could break her without thinking twice.

She sat down immediately.

The silence stretched.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded paper, dropping it on the table in front of her. The sound it made was louder than anything else in the room.

Ayra blinked. "What's this?"

His voice came, deep and unreadable. "Sign it."

She hesitated, then slowly picked up the paper, her fingers trembling as she unfolded it.

Her eyes widened. "A… marriage contract?"

She looked up at him, completely stunned. "You're joking… right? I don't even know who you are—"

He leaned forward slightly, eyes unreadable. "You don't need to."

Ayra's chest rose and fell quickly. This had to be some sort of joke. A bad one. But the weight in the room said otherwise. The seriousness in his tone. The way he watched her every move.

This wasn't a joke.

And the scariest part? Some part of her already knew who he was—she just hadn't confirmed it yet.

---

Ayra stared at the contract with wide eyes, her hands trembling slightly as she flipped through the crisp pages. Each clause she read felt like a punch to the gut.

"One year?" she muttered, confusion and disbelief lacing her voice. "You want me to marry you for just one year?"

Adrian didn't respond immediately. He leaned back in his seat, one leg casually crossed over the other, his face still concealed by the black mask. When he finally spoke, his voice was cold and final.

"Temporary. I need a wife, not a fairytale."

She swallowed hard and continued reading.

"Public appearances… I have to live with you?"

He gave a single, slow nod.

"You'll be seen where and when I need you. And yes—you'll live under my roof. I don't trust easily."

Her hands clenched the paper as her eyes landed on the next line.

"No emotional attachments?" she looked up, blinking in disbelief.

"You're telling me not to fall in love with you?"

He smirked faintly beneath the mask, but there was no humor in it.

"Exactly. Don't catch feelings. This is business."

Ayra's chest tightened as she scanned the next clause.

"If I get pregnant… the child belongs to you?" Her voice was nearly a whisper now, fear flickering behind her eyes.

He finally leaned forward, his gray eyes sharp like knives.

"Don't worry. You're not my type. That won't happen—unless you break the rules."

She stared at the contract again.

Two million dollars at the end of the deal. A golden ticket—if she survives the storm.

But one thing still stung.

"Why me?" she asked, voice barely audible.

He paused, his eyes locked on hers.

"Because you made the mistake of ending up in my bed, Ayra Wilder. And I always clean up my messes—personally."

---

Ayra opened her mouth, the word "no" on the tip of her tongue, but before she could speak, he cut her off—his voice dangerously calm.

"Think carefully before you say it," Adrian said, tapping a finger lightly on the contract. "You really want to go back to that miserable house of yours?"

Ayra stiffened.

"Back to your stepmother who treats you like a stain? The sisters who laugh behind your back while you work late nights to survive?" He tilted his head. "You think they'll ever see your worth?"

She flinched like he'd struck her. Her fingers tightened on the contract.

"And what about Lucas Brooks?" he continued, voice like ice. "You want to marry that puppet just because your family wants to climb the ladder? A man who'll never love you—who sees you as a deal, not a person?"

Her breath hitched, eyes falling to the paper again.

"You strip to eat," he said coldly. "You jump out of windows to avoid being judged. You wear a mask to protect your identity because even you don't want to face who you are."

He leaned forward slowly.

"But if you sign this, everything changes." His voice dropped to a whisper, but the weight behind it was thunderous.

"You get money. Status. Power. Freedom. You'll be untouchable. You can show them all—especially that family of yours—exactly what you're worth."

Silence.

Ayra's chest rose and fell quickly. She stared down at the contract, everything around her blurring. All the pain, the shame, the sleepless nights…

Was this her way out?

Or just another trap?

Ayra's hand trembled slightly as she held the paper, her mind spinning with questions she couldn't even form properly. How does he know so much about me? My family… Lucas… even the window…

She was about to ask when his voice cut through her thoughts like a blade.

"Don't bother asking," he said, not even looking at her. "You won't get the answers you want."

Ayra blinked. Her lips parted slightly, but again—he was ahead of her.

"Why do you suddenly care about me? And why should I trust you?" she asked, trying to sound bold even though her voice cracked slightly at the end.

He chuckled lowly, the sound sharp and humorless.

"Trust me," he said, locking eyes with her through the mask, "I don't care about you. Not even a little. Just take it as a win-win. You get your freedom, and I get what I want. Simple."

That stung more than it should have.

But deep down, she knew he was right.

No one had ever cared about her. Not her father, not her stepmother, not even Lucas. And here he was—this masked stranger—offering her a way out. A chance to fight back. To reclaim her life. Even if it came with strings attached.

Ayra stared at the pen on the table.

One signature.

One decision.

With a deep breath, she picked it up. Her name flowed across the bottom of the contract, letter by letter. As soon as she dropped the pen, she heard it—the low sound of him smirking.

That smirk told her everything:

There was no going back.

Ayra stared at the paper she'd just signed, her heart pounding so hard it echoed in her ears. She couldn't believe what she'd done—what she'd just agreed to. The weight of her signature stared back at her, bold and final.

The masked man leaned forward and picked up the contract with his gloved hand, scanning it quickly, making sure everything was in place. Then, without another word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek black card. He dropped it onto the table in front of her with a soft click.

"That penthouse. Tomorrow. 8:00 sharp," he said, his voice cold and final. "I don't like lateness."

Before Ayra could even process his words—before she could ask him where, why, or what this was all truly about—he was gone. Vanished. Like smoke.

She blinked. Heavily. The chair opposite her was empty. The cold air of the VIP room suddenly felt sharper, heavier.

Ayra picked up the card slowly. The address was printed in silver lettering: "Skyline Crest, Penthouse 2501." No name. No number. Just that.

She sat there for a few seconds, trying to gather herself. Her fingers tightened around the card.

"What the hell did I just do…" she muttered under her breath.

Later that night…

Ayra stood in her small bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror. She had removed her makeup, washed off the glitter and fake lashes, stripped out of her revealing clothes. All that was left was the real her—tired eyes, aching body, bruised dignity.

Her gaze dropped to the card on the sink counter.

Skyline Crest.

A penthouse. Something she'd never even dreamed of entering, and now she had to show up there… as what? A fiancée? A pawn? A fake wife?

She sighed deeply and turned off the light.

Tomorrow would change everything.

For better or for worse.