Page 39 of Sexting the Silverfox Daddy

Sheila

My footsteps echoed hollowly against the metal stairs as I made my way through the elegantly appointed employee corridor. Pushing open the enamel glass door beneath the flickering neon "Celestial" sign, an odd sense of calm washed over me.

"Sheila?" Madeline looked up from behind her desk. Her silver-gray bob swayed slightly with the movement, and the diamond studs in her ears caught the light, throwing tiny rainbows across the wall.

She set down her lighter. "What are you doing here? It's not your shift today."

"I know, Madeline." My voice came out steadier than I'd expected. "I need money. A lot of money."

Madeline's expression shifted instantly. "Leon?" she asked softly.

I nodded. Madeline was one of the few people who knew about my family situation. Three years ago, when I'd shown up desperate and out of options, she'd taken a chance on me. She'd kept me in the back—serving drinks, organizing inventory. Safe.

"The doctor says... we need a hundred thousand dollars within a week." The words felt like razor blades in my throat. "I'll do anything. Even—"

"Stop." Madeline cut me off, her voice uncharacteristically sharp. She stood and crossed to where I stood, reaching up to cup my cheek. "Sheila, you're only twenty-two." Her voice dropped low. "Do you understand what you're saying?"

"I do." I met her gaze directly. "Leon's only sixteen."

Madeline's hand fell away abruptly. She turned toward the window, staring out at Manhattan's glittering skyline. "There's a private party tonight," she finally said, and I heard a weariness in her voice I'd never noticed before. "They... like fresh faces."

She moved to her desk drawer and pulled out a manila envelope, sliding it across to me. "This is ten thousand up front. Forty more after the performance. One night, Sheila. One dance."

The envelope felt like it was burning my fingers. I stared at the club's gold-embossed logo—an eagle with spread wings.

"Go to the dressing room," Madeline said quietly. "Nana will help you get ready."

In the backstage dressing room, Nana—the club's star stripper—was perfecting her signature cat-eye liner in front of the vanity mirror.

"New girl?" She studied me through the reflection, her red lips curving into a knowing smile.

"Just tonight," I said.

Nana nodded, understanding immediately. She turned to the wardrobe and pulled out a velvet dress. "Madeline called ahead. The clients in the Emerald Room..." She paused meaningfully. "They'll undress you with their eyes before you even start moving."

The dress was deep green, shimmering like liquid jade under the lights. The cut was ingenious—it covered everything that needed covering while somehow suggesting far more than bare skin ever could. As Nana tightened the silk ribbons at my waist, I barely recognized the woman in the mirror.

"Remember," she whispered in my ear, "these men pay for mystery." She gave my shoulder straps a final adjustment and left.

I sat in the chair, waiting for showtime. Despite the summer heat outside, my limbs felt ice cold.

Was I really going to do this?

Shame crashed over me in waves. Who was that hollow-eyed woman in the mirror?

The pathetic scraps of fabric seemed to mock my desperation, sneering at the $2,347 in my savings account.

Mom and I had scraped together every penny over two years.

It was everything we had. But against the doctor's cold verdict, it was nothing. Dust.

"Miss Stella," The image of that white-coated doctor adjusting his glasses floated before me again, his gaze behind the lenses calm and cruel.

"Leon needs the bone marrow transplant within a week, or.

.. there's nothing more we can do. We'll need ten thousand tomorrow to schedule the surgery.

The total cost is one hundred thousand."

One hundred thousand dollars. Seven days.

Those numbers had crushed my world. Mom made less than three thousand a month cleaning offices, and that was when they didn't stiff her on pay.

I made maybe four thousand with tips, waiting tables.

Even if we never ate, never paid rent, it would take us over a year to save that kind of money.

We were a family that struggled to make rent, a family already hollowed out by medical bills.

My phone buzzed. A text from Mom: Sheila, Leon just woke up and asked when you're coming to see him. Says he wants some of your apple pie.

The smiley face emoji at the end stabbed into my heart like a needle. Leon wanted apple pie, and here I was, wearing this dress that didn't belong on my body, waiting to go on stage.

No. I clenched my fists hard, nails digging crescents into my palms. I won't let him slip away.

The bell signaling showtime jolted me back. I pushed through the heavy carved door.

Crystal chandeliers bathed the Emerald Room in dreamlike light.

Dark walnut panels displayed impressionist paintings, and several bottles of aged whiskey gleamed on the long table.

Two men in expensive suits occupied the leather sofa in the corner, each flanked by bodyguards in black.

Cigar smoke curled between them as they spoke in low, controlled voices.

Others lounged in chairs scattered around the room, their casual conversations creating a low hum of masculine voices.

The music started, and I walked slowly toward the circular stage at the center.

The conversations died away as the men turned to watch.

I tried to move my body, but I felt stiff as a marionette.

Every sway of my hips was self-inflicted torture.

I bit down hard, refusing to let tears fall.

This is all pretend, I told myself. Just acting. Playing a part for Leon.

The room beyond the stage lights was dim, faces obscured, but I could feel their eyes dissecting every movement like surgical instruments, their gazes burning into my soul. Those terrible, evaluating, possessive stares made my fingers fumble as I loosened the dress ties.

In the corner, a fat guy held a crystal tumbler, fingers tapping along to the rhythm.

He tilted his head slightly and casually tossed a wad of bills onto the stage.

His gesture triggered an avalanche—others followed suit, money raining down in a vulgar cascade.

The naked hunger in their eyes made my skin crawl.

I was merchandise on display, an item in a shop window.

I turned away, desperate to escape those leering gazes.

But the other man, sitting across from the first, hadn't moved at all. He simply sat there, watching. His dark suit emphasized the broad line of his shoulders, and his long fingers toyed with what looked like an antique ring.

As I turned, our eyes locked.

Those eyes—deep as a winter midnight, sharp enough to cut glass—fixed on me with laser focus. There was no mockery in that gaze, no casual lust. Just an intense, almost frightening concentration that made my breath catch.

Under that stare, I felt the absurd sensation of being... treasured.

No, more than treasured. Something fiercer, more primal—an absolute, unquestionable possession. As if I were some precious thing that belonged only to him, accidentally exposed to unworthy eyes.

My heart hammered against my ribs, but not from fear. This was something else entirely, something I'd never felt before.

His lips pressed together in the slightest frown. He turned his head fractionally, murmuring something to the man standing in the shadows behind him.

Then his gaze found me again, precise as a sniper's scope.

I froze mid-movement.

A stack of bills landed at my feet. I pressed my lips together and forced myself to keep dancing.

Somehow, I found myself dancing for him alone. Everyone else faded away until only he remained. This wasn't just a performance anymore—it was a wordless conversation between us.

That burning gaze wrapped around me like an invisible net, kindling a dizzying heat that spread through my body.

Ten minutes felt like ten hours.

When the music finally ended, I practically fled the stage.

"You did well, Sheila." Madeline handed me another envelope.

I took it, feeling its weight in my palm.

Fifty thousand dollars. Half of Leon's hope for life.

"Thank you. Really."

"Now you need to figure out how to get the rest." She squeezed my shoulder. "At least this buys you some time."

"I could still—"

"No." Madeline's tone was fiercer than I'd ever heard. "Think about Olivia."

The blood drained from my face.

I'd watched them drag that beautiful girl away.

"There has to be another way. Don't go down that road." Madeline's voice softened. She pulled me into a tight hug before leaving.

My hands were still shaking as I changed back into my own clothes. Jeans, sweater, sneakers—these simple, worn things made me feel incredibly safe, like I was finding myself again.

Yes, I can't go down that road. What would Mom and Leon think if they knew? There had to be another way.

Back at the apartment, my key scraped too loudly in the lock, echoing in the dead silence of the hallway.

I pushed open the door to the familiar smell of old furniture and lemon cleaner.

Faded photos hung on the wall—back when Dad was still alive, Mom holding baby Leon, me with pigtails and a carefree smile.

These were the few bright spots in my hard life.

"God..."

I let out a long breath and carefully tucked away the two envelopes of cash. With both my body and mind pushed past their limits, I forced myself through a shower. Didn't even have the energy to turn on the lights.

I fumbled my way to the bed and collapsed into it, burying myself deep in the thin blanket that smelled faintly of discount detergent.

I closed my eyes, trying to empty my mind. But I couldn't stop thinking about that devastatingly handsome man.

He was branded into my memory. This strange feeling made me question myself over and over—why would I remember him? A man who'd watched me like that, in a place like that? Just as consciousness started to slip away into darkness, my phone screen suddenly lit up.

This late at night—was something wrong with Leon? Fear flooded through me, my heart seized in a vise.

I shot upright and grabbed the phone.

On the screen was a text from an unknown number. No greeting, no pleasantries.

Just one domineering line, dripping with possession and command: I don't like you undressing in front of other men.