Beauty and the Devil

chapter 7

Samantha’s POV

The room was beautiful in that cold, curated way—oversized, high-ceilinged, and far too quiet. Cream walls, dark hardwood, a chandelier that glittered like a watchful eye above me. A marble bathroom branched off the corner, gleaming like something out of a luxury ad. Every surface looked untouched, like no one had ever really lived here.

I didn’t belong in it.

But I was alone. Finally. And that was something.

I took a breath, then another. The kind of breath that came from inside your ribs, where everything had been locked all day.

The dress slid off easily. I stepped out of the ridiculous heels. My feet ached, my back hurt. I drew a bath without thinking—more out of survival than self-care—and sank into the water with a quiet gasp, letting the heat sting before it soothed.

Steam curled around my face. For a second, it almost felt like I had control again.

The mirror on the far wall caught me off guard. I wasn’t looking for it, but there I was.

Naked, wet, my cheeks still flushed.

Clyde.

The thought of him made something twist low in my stomach. Not just fear. Worse. It was the heat that unsettled me—how close it hovered beneath the panic, how traitorous it felt. The way his fingers had touched my back, so casually, so decisively. Like he already knew what I looked like underneath.

I turned my head away, ashamed of the thoughts curling around me like the bathwater.

Michael.

The shame spiked harder.

He’d been stupid. Careless. He never had the stomach for this world. He always hated confrontation, always tried to make everyone happy. Of course someone robbed him. He wasn’t made for backroom deals or street corners. He wanted to save people’s passwords, not their souls.

And now I had to clean up the blood trail.

I leaned my head back and stared at the ceiling.

This wasn’t supposed to be my life. I’d worked so hard to stay clean. All those years avoiding the edges—refusing anything that smelled like sex work, dancing, anything that blurred the lines. Even when rent was late. Even when men offered too much for too little.

I never let myself become that kind of “masseuse.”

But was that what Clyde saw when he looked at me? Just another body to dress up and sell?

What if someone from my past walked into that club? A college classmate? One of my professors from psychology, or even Kira, watching from the shadows like she knew this would happen? What if someone I’d massaged just last week sat front row and watched me pretend I belonged?

I closed my eyes, trying to block it all out.

When I got out of the tub, the mirror was fogged. I didn’t bother wiping it clean.

I dried off, wrapped myself in one of the absurdly soft towels, then dropped it onto the floor without even thinking. I collapsed into the enormous bed, pulled the sheets over my bare skin, and let the weight of the day crush me.

Sleep found me before I could pretend to feel safe.

And then, I woke to the weight of a hand.

On my naked thigh.

My eyes snapped open.

Clyde stood beside the bed, fully dressed. His fingers rested lightly against my bare leg like they’d been there for a while, like they were just another piece of the furniture.

Panic surged through me. I jerked the sheet up to cover myself.

He didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He just looked at me with that same unreadable expression.

“I’ll see that you get a proper nightgown today,” he said, voice low. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Unless you prefer I see you like this.”

My mouth went dry.

I turned away, face burning.

He stepped back slightly, his tone shifting into something brisker.

“Get up,” he said. “It’s your first day.”

I blinked, still tangled in the blanket. “First…?”

“We’re going to 9 Circles of Hell.”

I knew exactly what he meant.