The Deepest Vow

"One, two, three..."

The private room was swathed in low, moody light, men and women pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on plush leather sofas. The harsh neon glow from the club bounced off the colorful array of liquor bottles crowding the marble table. Amidst the laughter and rowdy counting, Kerry Jones ignored the crowd. She didn't care about their playful nudges or the meaningful, leering glances sent her way.

She just mechanically repeated a single motion: tilt head, down the glass.

"Eleven... twelve!"

Finally hearing the magic number, Kerry stopped. Twelve straight shots burned a trail down her throat, the alcohol stoking a heat wave that rushed straight to her cheeks. She forced her expression to remain perfectly placid, not moving an inch.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the silhouette of the man sitting opposite her, half-swallowed by the shadows. From her angle, she could only see one leg of his tailored trousers. Not a single crease. It was pressed so perfectly it felt practically ruthless.

After a long pause, a low, lazy voice drifted from the darkness. Two brief words.

"Sit down."

Kerry secretly drew in a breath, walked around the liquor-drenched table, and sat down. She kept exactly one and a half person's width of distance between them.

The man had closely cropped hair, a sharp, high-bridged nose, and deep-set eyes that looked like they missed absolutely nothing. But Kerry didn’t dare look at him too closely.

This was Clifton Condon—the most notorious man in the city. The head of the Three Evils.

Clif didn't even turn his head to look at her. He casually pulled out his phone, his tone entirely indifferent. "What's your rate?"

It was the first thing he’d said to her since she sat down.

Kerry answered without missing a beat. "The trial period is free of charge."

The faint glow of his phone screen illuminated Clif’s face. His expression was flat, but his voice was deep and entirely too pleasant. "How do we do the trial? Do you come to my place, or do I go to yours?"

The man's magnetic voice left entirely too much room for imagination. Especially when the low, knowing chuckles erupting from the men nearby confirmed that Kerry wasn't the only one reading between the lines.

She paused for exactly two seconds. Then, keeping her voice completely steady, she replied, "The client is king. It depends entirely on your needs."

Clif abruptly changed the subject. "Smoke."

The private room was a haze of smoke and laughter. In this kind of club, the standard protocol was for the female hostesses to light the cigarette themselves, maybe even leave a lipstick stain on the filter, before feeding it directly into the mouth of whatever rich man was paying their bills.

Kerry lowered her gaze. She picked up the cigarette box from the edge of the table, tapped one out, and handed it toward Clif’s lips. She flicked the lighter. In the brief flash of the flame, she caught a glimpse of his mouth. His lips weren’t thin; they were actually beautifully shaped. But for some inexplicable reason, the only word that came to her mind was cruel.

Long, elegant fingers plucked the cigarette from his lips. Exhaling a cloud of white smoke, Clif's voice remained lazy. "What's the rate after taxes?"

"The company has a unified policy," Kerry said smoothly. "For my tier, it’s eighty dollars a minute. A standard session is one hundred minutes. So, eight thousand." She tacked on one final detail. "Before taxes."

Clif suddenly tilted his head and actually looked at her.

She was wearing a white, student-style skirt suit. The top wasn’t revealing in the slightest—it was almost painfully conservative. But the skirt was tailored tight, clinging to the curve of her hips and her slender waist. She was tall—five-foot-eight in bare feet—so the already short skirt looked dangerously small on her. From his angle, it was just miles of legs.

His gaze lingered for no more than three seconds before he looked away. "I’ll add a zero," he said, his tone betraying no emotion whatsoever.

He said it so casually, as if he wasn't talking about money at all.

"For that kind of price," Kerry replied evenly, "I'm afraid I wouldn't be qualified for the job."

Leaning back against the sofa, Clif said, "Name your price."

"I came here to interview as a tutor," Kerry said, her voice ringing out clear and cold. "Not as a madam."

The room, which had been buzzing with flirtatious chatter, instantly plunged into a dead, suffocating silence. Everyone turned to stare.

Clif openly assessed her now, a mocking smile playing at the corners of his eyes. "Is there a difference?"

Kerry didn’t panic. She met his gaze with absolute candor. "I didn't expect Mr. Condon to be the type to judge a book solely by its cover. I dressed to blend in with the environment, but I’m not actually part of it. Don't use this outfit to put a price tag on me." She paused, letting the silence stretch for a fraction of a second. "You can pursue me. But you cannot buy me."

The temperature in the room plummeted to absolute zero. Kerry stood there, spine ramrod straight, her face a mask of calm.

Inside, however, her stomach was churning.

She’d been in the city for a month. Her boss had made things hell for her at every turn. Clifton Condon was the ninth client she’d been sent to see. The previous eight had brutally ground down every last ounce of her pride and principles. What the hell did two master's degrees in math and physics matter? In the real world, the only way to get a foot in the door to see Clifton Condon was to strap herself into a club hostess uniform and serve him drinks and cigarettes.

She’d naiveley thought this job was based on skill. Turns out, what they really wanted was a 'performance.' And the harder she performed, the more insulting the punchline became.

Just as the tension in the room reached a breaking point, the heavy door swung open. A short, slightly pudgy, middle-aged man walked in, holding a glass of wine. He scanned the room and made a beeline straight for Clif.

"Mr. Condon! Heard you were in here. Came to offer a toast."

The man’s face was plastered with a sycophantic smile. But as his eyes accidentally swept past Kerry’s face, he froze. "Ms. Jones?"

Fuck my life, Kerry thought. She really should have checked her horoscope before leaving the house.

The man standing in front of her was David Macy. One of the eight clients who had aggressively canceled on her this month.

She didn't even look at him. She just turned back to Clif. "Mr. Condon, am I free to go?"

Clif didn't respond.

David, however, was busy taking in Kerry’s tight, revealing outfit. Emboldened by her silence, he smirked. "Where are you rushing off to, Ms. Jones? Since we bumped into each other, why not sit down and chat?"

Kerry ignored him and stepped forward to leave. David, assuming Clif didn't want her to go, immediately sidestepped to block her path.

"Ms. Jones," David said, his tone slick and condescending. "You can disrespect me all you want, but you must give Mr. Condon face. Besides... you’re already dressed for the part. You’ve taught so many students—what’s the harm in playing the student yourself for a night?"