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The evening matches had already kicked off when we stepped into the hall, which had turned into a cocktail of sweat, perfume, cigarette smoke, alcohol, and other strange smells. Inside, a vibrant mix of people from different nations filled the space, creating a suffocating atmosphere. The noise of the crowd merged with the blaring music, and the bass vibration throbbed in the pit of my chest. Women, each dressed more scantily than the other, clinging to the arms of wealthy men, gathered around the lavish booths on different levels in the generous hall. Above, mysterious boxes adorned in crimson light stood shrouded in secrecy, veiled with velvet curtains and golden-patterned chairs, where you couldn't distinguish the faces of the guests, designed specifically for absolute discretion.
“May I?” Peter refers to my arm, leaning close to my ear so that I can hear him.
“Where to?” I speak loud enough so he can hear me and let him take me by the arm, guiding me through the agitated crowd.
“To our box,” he replies, and I notice the hand guiding me from behind, but not touching my skin.
“You kept me waiting,” a familiar voice loudly whispers in my ear, and I feel firmly held by the arm.
I glance at the place where his sturdy hand rests, then raise my gaze to Manasseh, who emerged from somewhere behind the scenes.
In the area we've reached now, there are several tables with drinks arranged around an interior staircase that likely leads to the boxes. Many men, of all ages, dressed in suits, smoke stale cigars alongside beautiful women wearing dresses more expensive than my rent. The air is filled with a mix of smoke and cologne, invading my lungs before Manasseh's breath steals the last traces of oxygen left amidst the crowded room.
“We're heading up to the box,” Peter informs Manasseh, removing his hand from mine as if it were burnt, his blue-gray eyes lingering a bit too long on the spot where Peter's hand had been.
“No need. I want her to stay here, by the stage. After all, you're the star of the evening,”
“What are you talking about?” I refuse to let myself be intimidated, and we lock eyes for a tense moment, neither of us daring to breathe.
Manasseh breaks eye contact as he takes a moment to assess me from head to toe, a satisfied grin forming on his face.
“I know your measurements better than anyone,” he adds, adjusting his hair to one side.
Peter lingers nearby, trying not to seem interested in our conversation, which is impossible to ignore if you're in your right mind.
Choosing not to let his words rattle me, I divert my attention to the stage for a moment, but my attention is once again diverted by a man approaching and warmly greeting Manasseh, who looks equally elegant tonight.
Manasseh is dressed in an expensive suit, the high-quality fabric perfectly draped over his solid frame, exuding a mix of fresh sweat, Joop cologne, and the scent of Marlboro cigarettes he's been smoking since his teenage years, a habit inherited from his father, whose attention he craves so much. He places a hand on my shoulders, and his fingers glide over my waist. His steel-like arm wraps around me like a hungry python, and he leans in slightly, whispering in my ear:
“The real fun is just beginning. Come!” he pulls me closer to a table on the left.
In reality, it's another exclusive booth, where several men are crammed together on a plush leather sofa, accompanied by young ladies who appear under the influence of drugs, as they seem overly enthusiastic to be there, laughing without any apparent reason.
“Casius!” Manasseh calls out the name of one of the men at the table as we approach.
My stomach churns with unease. This unfamiliar atmosphere frightens me more than knowing Manasseh's intentions. I don't fully understand what's going on, but I follow him, feeling like I have no other choice.
“Morgenstern!” the man in the suit sitting at the table glances over his shoulder and sets the barely lit cigar on the edge of the ashtray before turning towards us.
Balding on top with a potbelly that suggests he's well into his fifties, he fits the image of a wealthy London businessman who, bitter after a life chasing after riches, now spends his money on young women in expensive places.
As the two men greet each other with a firm handshake, their attention shifts to me.
“Having fun?” Manasseh refuses to release his grip around my waist, and I comply, ignoring the curious gazes of the older man.
“I'm waiting to see your match tonight. There's nothing fun about those steroid-filled kids. Now, here's a real champion!” The man squeezes Manasseh's biceps, flexing them so hard that the seams of his jacket seem ready to burst, all while staring directly into my eyes.
“I hope you've bet on me,” the blond man laughs arrogantly and pulls me even closer, as if I'm some designer purse he's determined not to lose.
“All my money! There is only one Morning Star,” the old man's eyes sparkle when the word “money” leaves his thin lips. “Now, where's the surprise you mentioned after the committee meeting?” He rubs his hands eagerly, and I immediately prick up my ears at the mention of this mystery.
“She’s right here!” Manasseh lowers his gaze to me, and I freeze. “Gorgeous, isn't she?” He playfully slaps my butt and makes me take a step forward.
Ignoring the slight pain in my foot, I find myself leaning against the unfamiliar man before me, who has sticks of alcohol and expensive cigars. My breasts flatten against his arm, and I begin to tremble as I feel his lecherous gaze on my partially exposed chest.
“Stole her from Hugh Hefner, Morgenstern? She’s an angel!” he says, surprised, fixing his black, greedy eyes on my mouth, with dark circles and drooping eyelids.
“An angel?” Manasseh chuckles amusedly and shakes his head. “More like a naughty little piglet.” He pets my head in a dirty manner and playfully twirls a blonde lock around his finger.
