Chapter 6

Priyanka’s heels clicked against the pavement in sharp, uneven rhythms—each step betraying the tension coiled in her thighs. The whisper-thin fabric of her skirt clung to her thighs, shifting with every movement, exposing far more than she intended whenever the wind decided to betray her. She clenched her jaw, biting back the urge to adjust herself in public. The last thing she needed was drawing more attention.

But the men at the bus stop had already noticed.

Their eyes crawled over her body—slow, deliberate, like hands mapping unseen territory. One leaned against the shelter, lips curling around a cigarette as he blew smoke toward her. Another chuckled, nudging his friend, whispering something crude enough to make her stomach twist.

She kept her head down, fingers tightening around the strap of her handbag until the leather groaned. Ignore them. That’s what Heffner expected. A good girl didn’t make scenes.

The bus rolled to a stop, doors hissing open. Priyanka stepped inside, instantly regretting it.

No seats.

Standing in the aisle meant exposing herself further—meant feeling every jolt of the bus press her body into compromising positions. She gripped the overhead rail, knuckles whitening, as the men from the stop boarded behind her. Their laughter followed, closer now, hotter.

Then—contact.

A rough brush against her backside, deliberate, lingering. She spun, fury flashing in her eyes, only to meet the smirk of the smoker from before.

“How much for an hour?” His voice was low, meant for her ears alone.

Her lips parted, indignation rising—

“Or just your mouth?” He grinned, fingers tapping against his belt buckle. “I’ll pay extra if you swallow.”

The bus lurched, saving her from answering. Her stop. She bolted for the door, heart hammering, but footsteps followed—heavy, unhurried. They knew she was running.

She darted into the nearest crowd, weaving through bodies until the whistles faded. Sweat slicked her neck. Her chest burned. But the relief was short-lived.

The Golden Skin Parlour.

Heffner’s orders echoed in her skull: No more hair. Not a single strand. You’ll be smooth everywhere.

Finding the place proved harder than she expected. Back alleys twisted like a maze, littered with broken glass and the stench of piss. Shopkeepers shrugged her off—until he spoke.

“Next alley. Look for the spades.”

The voice came from shadows, smooth as oil. She caught a glimpse of dark skin, gleaming gold teeth, before he melted back into the crowd.

The parlour’s entrance was unmarked save for a flickering neon spade, the Q in its center glowing faintly. Inside, the air clung thick with antiseptic and something muskier.

A bald man glanced up from his phone, eyes raking over her with bored precision.

“What can I do for you?”

Priyanka swallowed. “H-Heffner sent me.”

Blank stare.

“William Heffner,” she clarified, hands trembling as she pulled up his photo.

Recognition flickered. Then something darker.

“And you are?”

“Priyanka Chopra.”

His smirk widened. “The Priyanka Chopra? Chairwoman of Chopra Corp? Daughter of Ashok?”

She nodded, throat tight.

The man circled her, fingers trailing along the choker at her throat—the one with the ring. The collar in all but name.

“What’s Heffner to you?”

The question hung between them, heavy as a blade.

Her whisper was barely audible. “He owns me.”

Laughter erupted, harsh and delighted. “A billionaire’s slave. Perfect.”

He guided her to the back room—a dim, sterile space with a single bulb swinging overhead. The table dominated the center, leather straps dangling from its sides.

“Strip.”

No preamble. No pretense.

Her fingers shook as she unclasped the choker, then peeled her clothes away. The air bit at her bare skin, raising goosebumps.

The man gestured to the table. “Lie down.”

Cold leather met her back as she settled against the padding. The cuffs closed around her wrists, ankles—each click a confirmation of surrender.