My Sex Slave is an Heiress

Bela

Milan’s elite nightlife always looked like it belonged to another species of people—ones who never had to calculate survival in the middle of a shift, or memorize which smile meant danger and which meant boredom.

The club I worked in was one of those places, tucked behind velvet discretion and membership lists that cost more than my entire life.

The guests didn’t see me as a person so much as a function. That was fine. Functions didn’t get emotionally entangled. Functions didn’t get remembered.

“Table six is asking for another bottle,” Marco muttered as I passed him behind the bar.

“I already sent one,” I replied without stopping.

“Yeah, but they’re bored,” he said with a shrug, like boredom was a form of currency I should be paying attention to.

I finally glanced at him. “They’re always bored. That’s why they drink expensive things and pretend it fixes it.”

That earned me a faint smirk, but he didn’t argue further. He knew better than to push when my tone was like that.

I turned back into the main lounge where everything was noise and reflection. Men in tailored suits leaned too close to women who knew exactly what they were being paid to tolerate. No one here was innocent. That was the unspoken agreement.

I almost made it through the hour without incident. Until I heard a shout from a noisy VIP table.

“Hey,” a voice called out behind me, smooth and bored, the kind of tone that expected obedience before conversation. “You.”

I ignored it and kept walking. Then, a chair scraped behind me.

“I said you!” the voice repeated, sharper now, irritation creeping in like entitlement always did when it wasn’t immediately rewarded. “Are you fucking deaf?”

I stopped slowly and turned.

Three men. Expensive watches. Expensive arrogance. The center one was already leaning back like the room belonged to him. He gave me a lewd once over.

“You’re new here, huh?” he said, staring at my breasts.

“I work here,” I replied evenly. “That doesn’t make me new. It makes me employed.”

A low laugh came from one of his friends, like I had said something mildly entertaining instead of correct.

The man in the center stood. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“I’ve got a job to do,” I corrected him. “If you want something, you can order it through the bar like everyone else.”

He stepped closer instead of answering, closing the distance like the concept of personal space was negotiable.

“Or,” he said slowly, “you can be less difficult and make this easier for both of us. I don’t like repeating myself, and I don’t like being ignored by people who get paid to be attentive.”

There it was, the moment where entertainment turned into control.

I tightened my grip on the tray slightly. “I think you’re confusing service with ownership.”

That made him smile—not amused, but interested in a way that wasn’t safe.

“You think you’re smart,” he said. “That’s always the problem with girls like you. They learn one or two phrases and start thinking they can negotiate their way out of anything.”

He reached for my wrist. His fingers closed around it, like he had done it before and never been told no in a way that mattered.

“Let go,” I said immediately.

Instead, he leaned in slightly, voice lowering. “Do you know what I think?” he said, almost conversational. “Women like you just like to get fucked by rich men. That’s why you end up in places like this instead of somewhere respectable.”

A flicker of heat rose in my chest, but I kept my expression neutral. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You look like a whore,” he sneered. “Oh, maybe you really wanted to get fucked that’s why you’re arguing with us?”

The room had shifted subtly now and everyone was pretending not to notice what was becoming inevitable. No one stepped in. That was the rule here: don’t interrupt what might become entertainment for someone more powerful than you.

I pulled my arm slightly, testing his grip. “I said let go.”

But the man just grinned. He then yanked my hand forcefully, making me crashed in his chest. The men at the chairs behind me laughed as I struggled to free myself from him.

“Come on,” he said and started groping my body down to my butt. “Stop being difficult—”

“Stop!” I screamed when his hand slid inside my shirt and groped my breast. “Stop—”

“Remove your hand,” a low deep voice suddenly cut in the atmosphere.

The man harassing me froze for a second as he waited for the man to approach us.

Sebastian Ricaforte walked into the lounge like he didn’t need permission from the world to occupy it. He didn’t scan the room the way normal people did. His presence didn’t announce itself loudly—it simply made everything else quieter by comparison.

And for a brief moment, I forgot how to breathe properly. He didn’t look at me first, he looked at the hand on my wrist.

The man holding me noticed the shift too. His confidence faltered, just slightly, as recognition started to catch up with arrogance.

Then Seb spoke. “I said, let go of her.”

The grip loosened immediately.

Seb’s gaze lifted slowly until it finally landed on me. And it didn’t soften, instead it hardened.

Like I was something he had expected to stay buried, and my reappearance was an inconvenience he hadn’t prepared for.

“You,” he said.

My throat tightened before I could stop it. “Sebastian.”

A pause followed. The kind that felt like it had weight.

Then he exhaled slowly, as if confirming something only he could understand.

Around him, his men were already moving, clearing people out of the space with quiet efficiency. Chairs shifted. Glasses were set down. Conversations ended mid-sentence.

Within moments, the room belonged to him.

And me.

The man who had been holding my wrist stepped back quickly, muttering something under his breath that sounded like an apology he didn’t fully understand the need for.

Sebastian walked toward my direction, his eyes moved over me with a precision that felt less like checking and more like verifying.

Then he spoke again, lower this time. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Something in my chest tightened at that, but I forced my voice steady. “Apparently not.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “You faked your fucking death, Bela,” he said, looking straight in my eyes. “Then, after years of silence, you’re standing here like nothing happened.”

“I didn’t fake anything,” I replied, and that was a lie. My knuckles clenched on my sides as I struggled to hold his gaze. “I’m just working here—”

 “Bullshit,” he cut off, giving that familiar death stare. “You are still full of bullshit.”

Something inside me finally cracked just enough for anger to slip through. “I don’t owe you truth, Seb.”

A pause. Then he smirked.

“You still talk like that,” he said. “Like you didn’t spend half your life trying to seduce your way through rooms you didn’t belong in.”

My breath stopped for a second. Around us, the empty room felt like it was listening.

“I never seduced anyone,” I said quietly.

Seb’s eyes darkened. “That’s not what it looked like.”

I felt something sharp rise in my chest, but I swallowed it down.

“Is that why you came here?” I asked. “To rewrite my past because it makes you feel better about yours?”

He took a step closer. “That’s rich coming from you who faked her own death to escape her sins.”

My fingers curled slightly at my side. “Leave now, Sebastian. I don’t want to see you—”

“You’re going to quit this job,” he cut off. “You will come with me and be my sex slave to pay all your sins.”

“That’s not your decision!” I almost shouted. “You don’t own me.”

That was when his expression changed—not into anger, but something colder and more certain.

“I don’t need to own you,” he said calmly. “You already made that complicated a long time ago.”

“No,” I stepped back but his hand was fast, he caught my wrist and pulled me against him. “Can you just leave me alone?”

He smirked. “I wouldn’t go easy on you this time—”

“You never did, Seb,” I said, tears stung my eyes.

His eyes darkened. “Why don’t you just tell me who you’re running from?” he asked, then leaned closer. “Was it me?”