The High-Rise Altar

The penthouse was a cathedral of cold glass, polished concrete, and pulsing neon. Forty floors above the city, the party was a blur of deep house music and the scent of expensive gin. Julianne stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, the skyline of the city shimmering behind her like a fallen galaxy.

She looked every bit the ice queen—platinum hair pulled back tight, eyes a sharp, piercing blue. But her outfit was a calculated act of war against the “refined” crowd around her.

Her top was a diaphanous layer of black silk-chiffon, so sheer it was essentially a window; the strobe lights caught every curve of her breasts and the dark, defiant circles of her nipples with heart-stopping clarity. Below, she wore a silver vinyl micro-skirt that was dangerously short, cinching her waist and barely skimming the tops of her thighs.

Dominic approached her, his black dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He didn’t offer a greeting. He simply held up a small leather cup containing two ivory dice.

“The gala downstairs was a morgue,” Julianne murmured, her voice smooth and dangerous. “I needed air. And I needed a reason to stop pretending I care about their opinions.”

“You certainly look like you’ve stopped caring,” Dominic replied, his gaze drifting over the transparent fabric of her top. “But are you ready to put a price on that defiance?”

He set the dice cup on a low glass table. Around them, the city’s elite mingled, their eyes constantly darting toward Julianne. She was the center of the room’s gravity—a woman standing on the edge of a scandal.

“Let’s make it interesting, Dominic,” Julianne said, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “No more ‘favors.’ No more ‘dares.’ This is a duel. If I lose a roll, a piece of clothing goes. If you lose, fifty thousand dollars goes to my foundation, and you lose a layer of that expensive suit.”

“A financial hit and a public stripping,” Dominic chuckled, the competitive fire lighting up his eyes. “And if you run out of clothes, Jules? What then?”

Julianne stepped closer, the heat of her body radiating toward him. “Then I keep playing until the sun comes up. Or until I have nothing left to hide.”

She grabbed the cup and shook it. The rattle of the bone dice was a dry, skeletal sound that cut through the bass of the music. She slammed it down.

The First Roll: The dice tumbled: Three and Four. Seven.

Dominic took the cup, his movements slow and deliberate. He shook it once and spilled the dice onto the glass.

Six and Five. Eleven.

“A strong start,” Dominic whispered, his eyes dropping to the thin, lace-topped stockings that hugged Julianne’s pale legs. “The stockings, Julianne. Take them off. Right here, where everyone can see the ‘Ice Queen’ start to melt.”

Julianne didn’t flinch. She set her drink down and reached for the hem of her silver skirt.

The First Sacrifice and the Payback Julianne didn’t hesitate. She took a slow, deliberate step back, leaning one hip against the cold glass of the balcony railing. With the eyes of the room’s elite beginning to fixate on her, she reached down and gathered the silver vinyl of her skirt.

She lifted the hem slowly, exposing the pale, flawless skin of her thighs. The skirt was so short that the mere act of reaching for her garter clips caused the fabric to ride up to the very edge of decency. With a metallic click that felt loud in her own ears, she unfastened the first stocking.

She slid the silk down her leg with a practiced, languid grace, her bare foot emerging from the fabric like a secret being revealed. She repeated the motion with the second, then draped the gossamer-thin pair over Dominic’s shoulder.