AllFreeNovel
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We reach the doors. Marius’s car pulls over, driven by a young man in uniform. We didn’t even tell anyone we were leaving. The service is ridiculously good here, but it also feels intrusive: someone definitely must have been watching us.
The valet leaves the door open for Marius, and rushes to open mine, too, tilting his hat up to me with a formal, “Miss.”
I grumble a thank you, still uncomfortable as I climb up into the car.
If they’re not letting me in thinking they can fuck me whenever they want to, what’s the point? There’s no such thing as an actual free lunch.
I know one thing for sure: I’ll never come back to this place if I can help it. Especially not by myself. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a dungeon filled with pretty girls locked up for their personal use. The memory of the pretty twenty-something girl with her mouth full of wrinkly cock supports that theory. Marius told me she was the old guy’s wife, and I want to believe it. But I don’t…not really.
I believe he told me what he thought was true, but how could it be? Millionaires don’t marry their prostitutes. They just don’t.
I look at the window as we drive through the empty, dark land. The city lights of southie blink in the distance as we reach the main bridge, and then we turn, on our way to campus.
At the back of my mind, I realize that Marius had me in a pretty secluded location. He could have done anything to me, and I would have been powerless to stop it.
But he didn’t. And I knew he wouldn’t.
As much as I mistrust everything and everyone in the world, it seems like I trusthim.
He hasn’t hurt me, and to my knowledge, he’s never lied to me either—not willingly. I decide to keep asking questions. I need to understand what that club I just joined is. Because at this moment? It feels like it could very much be a cover for a prostitution ring.
And if that’s the case, I will have no part of it.
63
MARIUS
Sarah’s silent for a long while, but when we reach the metal arch announcing we’ve arrived on the Rothford University campus, she asks, “Explain to me why everything is free for me at the club again? That doesn’t make sense.”
The little wrinkle between her brows deepens.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Money—or lack thereof—has never been something that I’ve hard to worry about, but to her, it’s a lot more relevant. Before she got her scholarship, I doubt she was given much for free.
“Because, sweetness, you’re eye candy.”
She giggles.
Giggles.
If the old Sarah I knew heard that, she would slap this one.
I should get her drunk more often; she’s adorable and pouty and so…lovable.
I wasn’t kidding, though.
The Heritage wouldn’t function without a host of gorgeous women to keep the members interested. The oldest generation of gentlemen here, our grandparents, might be happy to fuck the buds—the girls paid to be here—but the rest of us don’t need to resort to prostitutes to get to come inside a gorgeous young thing. We’re wealthy, and we’re not so ugly ourselves, mostly because of genetics: our parents were rich, so they married pretty. At least fifty percent of our DNA is hot. If the Heritage didn’t ensure the presence of a bunch of gorgeous men and women outside of our usual circle, the rest of us would likely not bother joining.
“I’m not that attractive,” she says with an eye roll.
I genuinely believe she thinks so, which is wild to me.
I mean, I’m used to hanging out with stunning women with the latest hairstyles, flawless makeup, gorgeous clothes, and it’s true that Sarah’s fashion sense leaves a lot to be desired. I doubt she’s seen a hairdresser so far this year. As for her shoes…
I glance down to her feet and grimace. I can’t let Liliya see those worn hiking boots. Ever.
But for all her lack of general sophistication, Sarah is beautiful. She doesn’t hold herself with the kind of confidence that makes heads turn, wallflower that she is, but once I started looking, I just couldn’t stop. She has a heart-shaped face with killer cheekbones, and that mouth, with bee-stung lips, is downright lewd. Her eyelashes are so long they look like they belong to a fucking horse. Women spend a fortune trying to replicate that. And then there’s her eyes, like dark molten gold. She’s captivating, and I don’t need to see her covered in paint to know that.
I’m not the first one to have worked that out—her various abusers saw it too, and wanted her for themselves.
