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Leo Thatcher believed himself untouchable.

Thirty-two, self-made—at least that’s what the magazines said—and bored out of his fucking mind. His life was a slow drip of power lunches, women with plastic ambition, and cars he didn’t even bother to drive anymore. When he wanted something, he bought it. When he wanted someone, he rented her.

That was before her.

She called herself Velvet. No surname. No socials. No smiley selfies. Just a blank profile photo and a message sent directly to his encrypted chat account at 2:43 a.m.

“You like control. But you’d love surrender more.”

He scoffed, half-drunk and sprawled across Egyptian cotton sheets, thumbing the message like it was a joke someone forgot to finish. He typed back:

“Cute. You want a tip or a trick?”

She replied instantly. No flirting. No preamble. Just a link to a digital wallet.

“If you want my attention, tribute. Or keep playing with yourself, baby boy.”

The audacity. The sharpness. Leo felt a rush—not of anger, not even amusement, but something older. Primal. That word—tribute—hit differently.

So he sent her a hundred dollars. Just to see.

She didn’t reply.

Two hours passed. He went about his day, lifting weights at his private gym, attending a video meeting he barely listened to, ignoring the tension in his pants. He sent another hundred. Still nothing. A thousand? No reply. He added a note: