Gabrielle screams for help, but the falling water drowns her voice. She takes a deep breath to scream again, but Jackson's elegant, warm hand clamps down over her mouth. She licks his palm and shakes her head back and forth, but he doesn't loosen his grip for a second.

"Looks like you're becoming a good little whore," Jackson says. "Tell me, are you really so desperate for clients?"

She mumbles something against his palm, and he raises his eyebrows. He slides his free hand down her back and cups the bottom of her ass, digging his long fingers into the sensitive skin.

"I'm going to take my hand off your mouth, but you better not scream," he says, dipping one finger between her legs.

She flinches and nods, and he takes his hand off her mouth. Shampoo drips down her face and burns her eyes, and she tries to wipe it away with the back of her hand. Jackson grabs her hand and places it on his chest, and she narrows her stinging eyes.

"I thought you brought me here to entertain clients," she says. "Don't act like becoming a whore was my idea—I'm just trying to pay off my debt as quickly as possible."

"If you want to entertain guests so badly, then hurry up and serve me," Jackson says.

He strokes her between her legs, and she shivers and tries to pull away, but he tugs her even closer. His erection strains against the front of his wet trousers and rubs against her hip. His eyes are flinty and cold, and she knows he'll be as punishing and rough as always.

"Shouldn't we discuss the money first?" she asks, pushing against his soaked shirt. "The last two times you didn't give me a cent. But this is the Top Girls Club—no one works for free here."

"Asking for money upfront?" Jackson asks, his mouth twitching with amusement. "Remind me to give Abbie a raise—she's trained you quite well."

"I'm just trying to survive here," she says. "Anyway, I'm sure you heard the men downstairs—you know my market value. Some guy just offered me fifty million for a single night. I won't settle for anything less. Now, if you're looking to buy me by the month, I could offer you a slight discount."

She's proud of the way her voice stays flat and businesslike. Her insides are churning, and she feels like she might be sick all over the black and white tile floor. I can't believe it's actually come to this, she thinks. I'm truly a prostitute now. But Jackson is going to take me no matter what, so I might as well get something out of it.

She closes her eyes and tries to do the math. If it's fifty million for a night, and there are thirty-one days in a month, she could make over a billion dollars in one month alone. With the discount, she can charge one billion for the month and pay off her debt.

That sounds too good to be true, she thinks, feeling another wave of nausea twist her stomach. There's no way he'll let me out of here in a month. And even if he agrees, the month will be absolute hell. He'll do every perverted, degrading thing he can think of.

"Since you're my only regular, I'll give you a special deal," she says, hating the way her voice shakes. "One billion for a month."

Jackson laughs low in his throat and says, "Nice try, but no deal. What if you became my mistress for the year?"

A year? How much would that be? Gabrielle tries to count it out on her fingers, but that's impossible. There's no way Jackson can afford to give her fifty million dollars a night for a year. Even if he gives her one billion a month, the price is still impossible.

"Can you afford a year with me?" she asks, trying to toss her hair the way the other girls do when they don't believe a guest's offer.

The wet hair sticks to her back, and she slams her forehead into Jackson's chin. He groans and digs his fingers into her ribs. There's a stabbing pain in her forehead, but she's about to hit him again when his long finger slips inside her. She bucks her hips and a moan escapes her lips.

"Rest assured, I'll find a way to pay you," he says against her skin. "From now on, I'll focus on two things: making more love to you and making more money to pay you."

He slides his finger out of her and brings it up to his lips. His long tongue darts out of his mouth, and he licks his finger from top to bottom. She shudders and tries to pull away, but backs her into the glass wall.

"I'm going to enjoy this," he says, unzipping his pants.

He thrusts into her in one hard, unforgiving stroke. She screams with the pain, but the roar of the shower covers the sound. He pulls out and slams into her again and then again. The sharp pain eases into a dull ache, and she grows too tired to scream. After half an hour, it's all she can do to stay conscious.

When he finally finishes, he lets go of her, and she collapses into a puddle on the tile floor. He ignores her, stripping out of his clothes and scrubbing his body with a bar of soap. Het gets out of the shower, turns the water off, and wraps himself in a white terrycloth robe, leaving her shivering on the bathroom floor.

She pulls herself to her feet, but her legs are shaking too much to stand. She leans against the wall and stumbles across the slippery floor. A loud knock at the door makes her jump, and she falls back onto the hard tile.

David West, Jackson's personal assistant, is standing in the doorway with a white paper bag. He looks his boss up and down and then glances in at Gabrielle. She raises her hand to cover her breasts.

"Sir, I brought the clothes you asked for," David says.

Jackson nods and takes the bag. He unties the rope and lets it drop to the floor in front of both David and Gabrielle. From the bathroom floor, she can see the long, lean muscles of his calves and thighs and the washboard abs above them. His wet, curly hair falls across his chiseled face, and his icy eyes flash. He looks like a Greek god.

"Sir, forgive me if I'm out of place, but I've never seen you with one of the girls before," David says. "You always complained that they weren't clean enough for you."

"Shut up," Jackson says, slamming the door in David's face.

Avery closes her eyes in the car and rests her forehead against the cool glass window. Her clothes smell like tobacco and wine, and the smell makes her headache and throb. When she opens her eyes, the car is pulling into the Clifford Mansion gates.

The night butler and a team of maids rush to the car and open the doors. Andrew helps Avery out, and she leans sleepily against his arm.

"Sir, your room is ready," the butler announces. "But Mrs. Clifford asked us to prepare two separate rooms for you and your fiancé. She said you shouldn't be sharing a room before you're married."

Avery smiles—Mrs. Clifford may be trying to torment her, but she's actually doing her a favor. She doesn't want to share a bed or even a room with Andrew. Even though he still can't have sex, she doesn't want to be near him.

One of the maids leads her to a room on the second floor. The room is large and dimly lit with an enormous king-sized bed piled high with throw pillows in burgundy and red. She pads barefoot across the room toward the bathroom, but something soft and furry squished under her feet.

She screams and sees a small brown mouse. With a deep breath, she bends over and looks closer—it's just a toy. Still, her skin crawls as she picks it up by its rubber tail and drops it in the bathroom trash can. What an immature prank, she thinks. Clearly, Jessica and Caitan know that it'll take more than that to scare me away.

She takes a long hot shower, perfuming her hair and skin with essential rose oils. She dresses in a cotton pajama set and walks to the bed. When she pulls the duvet back, she screams: dozens of realistic-looking cockroaches have been tucked between the duvet and sheet. With a sigh, she sweeps the rubber bugs onto the floor and gets into the bed.

When she wakes, there's a steady rhythmic thumping. It sounds like a heavy headboard is banging into the wall behind her bed. After a few minutes, moans and screams join the thumping.

"Oh yeah, harder," Caitan screams. "Ahh, yes."

Avery blinks and yawns and stretches her hands over her head. She rolls onto her side, but the sex noises only get louder. Between Caitan's screams and moans, she can hear a man grunting. She reaches for her phone on the nightstand, narrowing her eyes at the bright blue light on the screen.

There's an unread text message from Evan. She opens it, but there's no message—just an audio file. She hits play, and a series of moans and whimpers come out of the speaker. The phone falls from her hand, and she covers her mouth.

"Say my name," Evan's voice says.

"Oh, Evan," she hears herself moan.

"Beg me to fuck you," Evan says.

"Please, Evan, fuck me," she moans.

She fumbles for the phone and stops the recording. Blood rushes her to her cheeks, and she squirms uncomfortably in the bed. She doesn't want to admit it to herself, but the recording has turned her on. Her time with Evan was a blurred, drugged haze, but she remembers enough to feel the desire pool between her legs.

The phone buzzes, and another message appears: "Are you asleep?" She drops the phone, but it buzzes again. "I know you're not," the message reads. "You have ten minutes to meet me downstairs."

Avery jumps to her feet and tiptoes across the thick wool carpet. She pulls back the heavy linen curtain with the tip of her finger and sees a black Maybach parked outside the Clifford gates.