Page 12

ALLURE

The clink of dishes in the sink was rhythmic, almost hypnotic. Scrub, rinse, place. Scrub, rinse, place. Like if I kept moving, I wouldn’t hear the pounding of my heart. Like if I stayed focused on the suds, I wouldn’t think about the risk I was about to take.

My hands were trembling. The hijab still covered my head, my robe still clung to my body—but beneath it all, my skin buzzed with the need to be free of it. To shed the layers he made me wear and finally step into something that was mine.

She’d arrived less than an hour ago, all smiles and Chanel perfume, telling Avi she was just dropping by to check on him. Concerned daughter, blah blah blah. Said she wanted to toast her birthday with her big brother and share a quick glass of wine before she headed to The Gilded Cage.

What Avi didn’t know was that his birthday pour was laced with crushed sleeping pills Irina had slipped into the cabernet with a grace only a girl raised on lies could master.

I watched the whole thing from the kitchen doorway. Watched his arrogance melt into confusion. His limbs grow heavy. His words slur. He’d stumbled into the living room, trying to flex, trying to fight it—then collapsed on the velvet couch like a dying bear.

He was out cold.

Irina appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later, her heels clicking across the marble like a countdown clock.

“It’s time.”

My whole body stiffened.

“This is it?” I whispered.

“This is it.”

I didn’t ask if she was sure. I didn’t ask if she had the guards handled. I didn’t ask if she was scared. She was. I could see it in her eyes. But she was still doing it. Still helping me.

She grabbed my wrist and pulled me through the back hallway, past the staff staircase and the old wine cellar no one used anymore.

The halls were mostly quiet. The guards had gathered around the media room, distracted by some foreign sports broadcast and a tray of whatever catered junk Avi had ordered for the night.

Irina walked fast but didn’t run. Running drew attention. Walking with confidence—head high, steps smooth—that was how you moved when you didn’t want to be seen.

My legs felt like they weighed bricks. Every step I took closer to the garage felt like I was pulling away from gravity. From Boaz. From the hell that had swallowed me whole for the last ten years.

The garage doors loomed ahead. One of them was already open—her red G-Wagon backed into the shadows like a getaway car in a heist film.

“This is it,” she said again, this time quieter. Her voice trembled. “Trunk’s already cleared out. It’s lined with a blanket. I only need you to stay hidden until I get through the gate. Once we hit the highway, I’ll pull over, and you can ride up front.”

I nodded, throat dry. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

Irina blinked hard, her mascara smudging slightly beneath her eyes. “Just have fun tonight and don’t fuck me over. I’m getting you back here, Allure. That’s thanks enough.”

She popped the trunk.

I stared into the darkness of it, heart beating out a war drum rhythm.

This wasn’t just a ride to a party.

This was a jailbreak.

And I wasn’t coming back.

I climbed in slowly, folding myself into the trunk’s narrow space, pulling the blanket over my body and tucking in the sides. Irina lowered the door with careful fingers, her eyes locked on mine until the very last second.

Click.

Darkness.

Silence.

And then—movement.

The soft rumble of the engine. The subtle turn of wheels. I heard voices in the distance—guards laughing. A gate groaning open. The tires shifting against gravel, then pavement.

Then… freedom.

Real freedom.

And this time, it had my name on it.

Allure.

Not Virgin.

Never again.

By the time we crossed the bridge into Manhattan, my hands were still trembling.

The robe wrapped tightly around me like a second skin, and my hijab itched against my scalp—not from the fabric, but from the memory of what it represented.

For ten years, that uniform of purity was all I was allowed to be.

Untouched. Controlled. Covered. The embodiment of Boaz Haim’s twisted fantasy.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I was breaking rules.

And maybe… just maybe, I wasn’t coming back.

Irina’s penthouse was everything I thought heaven should be and everything I had been denied.

Floor-to-ceiling windows opened up to a city that never begged for permission to shine.

The marble floors gleamed under a soft golden light that kissed every inch of the room.

Sleek black furniture sat like sculptures, unapologetically modern, framed by curated art and towering bookshelves filled with design tomes, travel memoirs, and titles I hadn’t even heard of.

A velvet couch lounged beneath a brass chandelier, and somewhere in the walls, the scent of vanilla musk whispered against my skin like a lover.

My mouth parted slightly as I took it all in.

The kitchen alone was larger than the bedroom I’d been confined to for a decade.

The kind of kitchen built not just to cook—but to entertain, to laugh, to live in.

And the walk-in wine bar? I didn’t even know where to look first. The ceiling glimmered.

The walls shimmered. The whole damn space looked like it had been ripped from a movie scene.

From my movie—the one that should’ve been mine if life had gone differently.

If my father hadn’t lost me.

If Boaz hadn’t stolen me.

If I hadn’t been erased.

“This way,” Irina said, kicking off her heels, already loosening her curls from the sleek ponytail they’d been twisted into.

There was an excitement in her step I couldn’t keep up with, but I followed anyway, past the living room, up a floating staircase so pristine it didn’t even creak. At the top, she opened the door to a master dressing suite that made my knees go soft.

It wasn’t a closet.

It was a cathedral.

Sunlight from the rooftop garden poured in through a full glass wall, warming the ivory rug and bouncing off a backlit mirror that could probably see into your soul. The scent in here was different—cleaner, more delicate, tinged with roses and cedarwood. Another scent of freedom.

And there, in the middle of the room, sat a garment rack.

“These are for you,” Irina said casually.

I froze.

Each piece was carefully hung—pressed, steamed, arranged by color. Rich crimsons, emeralds, midnight blue… and black. My size. Not the size someone thought I should be, but the size I was. As if she didn’t just want me to play dress up—but to feel beautiful in my own skin.

My throat tightened. I reached out, fingers brushing silk, velvet, crepe. There was nothing like this in the compound. There was nothing like this in my world.

And then I saw it.

A black blazer dress. Sleek, double-breasted, with a plunging neckline and padded shoulders.

Gold buttons shimmered like moonlight on dark water.

The fabric was structured, firm enough to hold its shape but soft enough to mold to every curve.

The hem skimmed the thighs, tailored to give the illusion of legs for days, while the long sleeves added a sharp elegance.

This wasn’t just a dress.

This was a declaration.

I took it into the bathroom, carefully locking the door behind me.

My hands shook as I unwrapped the robe I’d lived in for too long.

It fell in a whisper to the floor, pooling like the ghost of the girl I used to be.

I unpinned my hijab and let it slip off slowly, reverently, almost like shedding skin.

My reflection in the mirror looked… raw.

Exposed.

But free.

I stepped into the dress and adjusted the lapels.

The fabric hugged me in all the right places.

My breasts were full and high, cleavage peeking out unapologetically.

My waist, softened by time and PCOS, curved gently into full hips and thick thighs.

My belly wasn’t flat, but I didn’t care. I looked like a woman.

When I stepped into the Ala?a Cabaret heels—jet black with scalloped ankle straps and razor-thin stilettos—I felt taller. Stronger. Like every inch of me had purpose again. My walk changed. My posture changed. Hell, even my breathing changed.

I stepped out of the bathroom slowly.

Irina turned—and damn near choked.

“Holy. Shit.” she gasped, eyes wide. “You’re a whole bombshell.”

I flushed, but this wasn’t embarrassment. This was heat. This was pride rising in my chest like something I hadn’t felt in years. It was like my soul had reentered my body and decided to stay.

Irina moved closer and whistled low. “Okay, no. We’re calling in backup. You’re getting your face beat immediately.”

She reached for her phone, dialing her glam squad like it was a national emergency.

And all I could do was nod, fighting the sting in my throat.

Because for the first time in over a decade… I wasn’t the Virgin.

I wasn’t Boaz’s property.

I wasn’t some clean pair of hands hiding pain behind white fabric.

I was me.

And the world?

Was about to meet me too.

The makeup artist worked in quiet concentration, brushes moving with the grace of a painter who knew their canvas.

I sat still, heart thrumming with a mix of anxiety and awe as he swept deep plum shadows over my lids, blending them into a velvety black smoke.

A single silver shimmer traced the center of each eyelid like a secret.

My lashes were long, feathery, dramatic.

My cheekbones glowed. And when he applied the final stroke—a bold, satin-matte red lip—I barely recognized the woman staring back at me.

My skin? Immaculate. Smooth as mahogany. Luminous.

My lips? Full and powerful. Like they held stories instead of prayers.

When he turned the mirror toward me, my breath caught.

I looked... dangerous.

I looked like someone who couldn’t be bought, couldn’t be caged.

“You’re gonna break necks tonight,” the makeup artist murmured with a wink.

Irina clapped her hands behind me. “Are you seeing this? You look like revenge. Like the kind of woman who ruins lives on purpose.”

And for once, I wasn’t hiding behind humility.

I smiled.

And meant it.

The Gilded Cage was already pulsing by the time we arrived.

Music thrummed low, like a seductive heartbeat beneath the floor.

The air was cool and heavy with money and perfume—dark florals, expensive oud, something citrusy in the corners.

Bodies swayed under golden chandeliers, their laughter bouncing between velvet walls and glass fixtures.

As soon as Irina walked in, the attention shifted. Everyone turned—of course they did. She was the birthday girl. The heiress. The storm in heels.

People swarmed her with kisses, gifts, compliments. A blur of designer fabrics and camera flashes.

She turned back and grabbed my hand, her fingers tight around mine. “Come meet him.”

“Him?” I asked, breath catching.

“My boyfriend, Rollo.”

She dragged me past a circle of people laughing over cocktails and toward a corner where two men stood—both tall, both dressed in suits that cost more than I’d probably earn in a year… if I ever had the chance to work.

One was Irina’s boyfriend. Rollo. He smiled when he saw her, wrapping his arm around her waist like he’d done it a hundred times and would keep doing it until the end of the world. His energy was soft, easy.

But the man standing next to him?

He was anything but.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move.

He just looked at me.

And I looked right back.

It hit me so fast I almost lost my breath.

That was him. The man who’d delivered the tiger to Boaz.

The one I’d only seen once but hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.

His presence was even more potent up close—more dangerous.

He had the kind of face that made you want to make mistakes.

Dark-skinned, sharp jaw, mouth full of glinting grills that somehow made him look like both a prince and a villain.

His eyes were low and slow and heavy with something I couldn’t name. Lust? Curiosity? Recognition?

My body reacted before my brain did.

My skin warmed.

My lips parted slightly.

My thighs pressed together.

There was something about him that felt like gravity. Like inevitability.

“And apparently you’ve met Riot already,” Irina said while winking, as if the name didn’t just shake something loose inside of me.

He turned my way and locked his eyes to mine.

And for a second, it was like the rest of the party faded.

Just soundless, breathless heat.

I didn’t smile. Neither did he.

But something passed between us anyway.

And I knew...

This night was only just beginning.