His Dirty Massage Secret

With my baby strapped to my back, I trudged through the city, searching desperately for work—any work—that would let me keep her close. Rejection after rejection wore me down until, by some miracle, I met Vincent Lowell.

He studied me with a warm smile. "You can work here without worrying about your child. My place offers the best benefits."

Relief flooded through me. Overwhelmed with gratitude, I swore to myself I'd prove my worth.

Then, in the blink of an eye, everything twisted.

He led me into a room—and locked the door behind me.

Before I could react, Damian Royston, his relative, grabbed me from behind.

"Even with a kid, you're not bad," he sneered. "As long as you serve me right, I won't complain."

I twisted free, slamming my fists against the door. "Vincent! Let me out!"

His voice came through, cold and amused. "You want good treatment? Prove your worth. Show me what you can do."

Later, when Damian demanded a foot massage, Vincent insisted I serve him. "He's family. And you're the best we've got."

For a foolish second, I was flattered—until I stepped inside.

Damian lunged, crushing me against him. I shoved him back, scrambling for the door—

Click.

Locked.

I threw myself against it, pounding until my fists ached. "Vincent! Open the damn door!"

Behind me, Damian chuckled. "He owes me money. You're the payment. You really think he'll help you now?"

I refused to believe it. Vincent had been kind. When no one else would hire a mother with a child, he'd taken me in without hesitation.

Outside, Vincent's voice was calm. "My cousin likes gentle women. Do this right, and I'll treat you well. But you'd better repay me properly."

Damian yanked me back, his lips slobbering toward my neck. I slapped him hard, retreating to the corner.

He spat. "Acting all high and mighty? You should be grateful."

He came at me again, backing me against the wall.

Then—my baby woke with a sharp cry.

I turned to check on her—just as he seized the chance to grab me.

"Stop! She's crying!" I begged.

Annoyed, he ripped the carrier off my back—and struck my child across the face.

"Little brat, ruining my fun."

The sound of that slap shattered me.

I lunged for her, but he tossed her onto a cabinet, her wails piercing the air. I reached for her—only for him to drag me back by my hair, slamming me onto the bed.

"Your husband's not here," he sneered. "Who are you fighting for?"