The difference in strength was absolute. Julian was jerked back into the leather seat, his body hitting the upholstery with a dull thud.

It didn't hurt, but the humiliation burned. Julian slumped against the back seat, a raw, bitter ache rising in his throat.

He'd been scammed into a hostess bar, nearly sold, and now he was being interrogated.

"What else do you want?" Julian snapped, wrenching his arm away. The outburst was sudden, a rare fracture in his quiet mask. "You've finished yelling at me. Now let me go!"

"I want you to understand the severity of this," Samuel said, his voice leveling out into a dangerous calm. "This isn't a playground. There are plenty of healthy places to spend your time if you want to 'play'."

Julian's eyes stung. To play? He looked at Samuel, his vision blurring with tears he refused to shed.

"Who was playing?" Julian's voice was a jagged tremor. "I was there for a modeling gig. I didn't know they wanted... people for drinks."

Samuel's expression shifted. A flicker of genuine shock broke through his cold exterior. "A part-time job? You're that short on cash?"

Julian was an intern at Apex Capital, but his salary was generous. Samuel had personally doubled it last month. It should have been more than enough for a student in NYC.

"A family allowance?" Samuel pressed.

Julian let out a short, bitter laugh. "You want to know why I'm so desperate?"

He was tired of pretending. He was done maintaining the image of the "perfect intern." He didn't care if Samuel saw the cracks anymore.

"My parents are migrant workers," Julian said, staring straight ahead. "I've been sending money home since my first month. They're coming to visit at the end of the year, and I'm paying for everything. That's why I was there."

Samuel went very still. Silence filled the car, heavy with shock and a sudden, leaden guilt.

He'd imagined Julian as a child of the middle class, nurtured and protected. He'd taken Julian's top-tier grades and work ethic as a given—the standard traits of the elite.

The reality was a miracle Samuel hadn't seen. Julian shouldn't have been able to make it this far.

Samuel reached out, his hand hovering near Julian's head before he caught himself. He pulled back, his voice dropping an octave. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I shouldn't have judged you."

Julian pulled his knees to his chest, silent. He hadn't expected an apology from a man like Samuel Frost.

In this city, Samuel was the only person Julian had. He was a boss, but in the quiet of the car, he felt like something Julian wasn't supposed to name.

"It's okay," Julian muttered, staring at his bare toes. "I'm used to it. And... I know you were just worried."

Samuel's chest tightened. Julian was too compliant. He didn't even have to coax the forgiveness out of him.

Julian's parents were anchor points, but they were also weights. They were jumping onto his wings just as he was trying to fly, dragging him back into the mud.

Samuel couldn't watch him sink. "I know it's not my place," Samuel said, his tone rare and soft. "But you need to find your own footing first. You can't help them if you're drowning."

Julian knew the logic. He'd seen the stories online about escaping toxic cycles.

But then he thought of his father's hand. He remembered the New Year his father came home missing half a finger, joking about the stump to hide the shame of the construction accident.

Julian had been too terrified to cry then. He still couldn't look at that bare, blunt finger without feeling sick.

He thought of his mother, her health broken by labor and a difficult second birth. He thought of the two-hundred-dollar-a-month room they lived in—a cramped, grey space.

In their world, children were productivity. They were a resource to be used. His father had been tied up like cattle as a child so his parents could work the fields.

Julian couldn't just walk away. His family wasn't evil; they were just a grey area of suffering.

"Thank you for the advice," Julian said, his voice small but sincere. "I'll think about it."

Samuel opened his mouth to speak, but the sound of heavy footsteps on gravel cut him off. A group of men in suits was approaching the SUV.

Julian stiffened, retreating into the wool blanket like a cornered animal. Club security.

"I'll get us out of here," Samuel said, reaching for the gear shift.

Julian's fingers clamped around Samuel's wrist. His eyes were no longer wet; they were hard.

"I want to call the police."

Samuel paused, searching Julian's face for a few seconds. He nodded. "Consider it done. I'll handle it."

"Is it going to be a problem for you?" Julian whispered.

Samuel shook his head and pulled out his phone. He had a call to make.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A black Jeep pulled nearby.

The window rolled down, revealing a man in a leather jacket.

"Ready, Frost?" Ethan Reed called out, a smirk playing on his lips. "Playing for keeps tonight?"

Samuel turned to Julian. "He's with the police. I'm assisting with an undercover sweep."

Julian's fingers tightened around the wool blanket. "Is it dangerous?"

"They'll be watching my back," Samuel replied.

Julian's chest felt tight. If he hadn't asked for the police, Samuel wouldn't be stepping into this. "Can I help?"

"No," Samuel said.

Ethan leaned out the window. "Actually, we're short one person."

"Ethan," Samuel warned, his voice dropping an octave.

"It's voluntary," Ethan countered. "But it would make the cover a lot more convincing. Otherwise, you'll have to hire a real club boy."

Samuel looked at Julian, his expression a wall of stone. "You are not going."

Julian went quiet for a moment. "Is it life-threatening?"

"Usually not," Ethan said.

Julian nodded, his jaw set. "Then I'll do it."

He was terrified, but he needed to do something. Samuel didn't argue further as Ethan outlined the plan.

Julian's task was simple: go back inside, play the role of the club boy, and wait for Samuel to "buy" him.

"Don't be reckless," Samuel muttered as Julian stepped toward the side door. "Protect yourself."

The blanket fell away, returning to Samuel's hands.

Julian stood in the freezing rain, his skin pale against the scraps of black lace.

The ground felt like ice under his bare feet. He looked back at Samuel once, then stepped into the shadows of the club.

Backstage was a blur of frantic energy. Julian claimed he'd been in the bathroom with a stomach bug.

The staff pushed him toward a mirror. Makeup was applied with heavy, hurried strokes. Then, the call for the stage came.

The walk was nauseating. Julian kept his mask on, trying to filter out the predatory stares from the crowd.

He waited for Samuel to move, but a bouncer intercepted him first. A middle-aged man followed close behind.

"This is Mr. Smith," the bouncer said, pushing Julian forward. "He specifically requested you. We went to a lot of trouble to get you here tonight."

Nausea roiled in Julian's stomach. It wasn't a mistake. He'd been targeted.

Julian stepped back, refusing to speak.