Chapter 3 — An Unexpected Proposal

Maya

Midnight air pulsed through Obsidian, each beat of bass reverberating against exposed brick walls while crystal chandeliers trembled ever so slightly above. Maya moved across the obsidian-black stage with practiced precision, her body translating music into movement that appeared effortless despite the careful calculation behind each gesture. Tonight, her mind remained split—one part fully present as Raven, commanding attention and respect from the audience below, another part still wrestling with the realtor's words from earlier.

Fifty thousand dollars short. Two weeks to match the offer.

She executed a perfect spin around the chrome pole, using momentum to suspend herself momentarily, creating an illusion of weightlessness that drew appreciative murmurs from the crowd. The theater slipped further from her grasp with each passing day, yet she maintained the serene, slightly detached expression that defined Raven's allure. Never let them see the effort. Never reveal the purpose.

As her set concluded, Maya gathered the bills scattered across the stage with dignified efficiency, acknowledging her audience with a measured nod that conveyed appreciation without invitation. Backstage, she deposited her earnings in her locker, mentally adding tonight's take to her theater fund. Still not enough. Not nearly enough.

"Raven." Jerome, the floor manager, approached with the slight hesitation he always displayed, as if uncertain whether his authority extended to her. "You've got a request for the Onyx Room."

The Onyx Room—Obsidian's most exclusive private space, reserved for high-value clients. Maya maintained her neutral expression while making quick calculations. The higher fee meant more for the theater fund, though private dances weren't her preference.

"Who's the client?" she asked, already reaching for the sheer black wrap she used for private sessions.

"Didn't give a name. But he's well-dressed, clearly has money." Jerome shrugged. "Specifically requested you, no substitutions."

Across the dressing area, Elena caught Maya's eye, raising a questioning eyebrow. Something in her friend's expression suggested concern beyond the usual protective vigilance they maintained for each other.

"I'll be there in five," Maya replied, turning to her mirror to refresh her makeup.

As Jerome retreated, Elena approached, voice lowered beneath the dressing room's ambient noise. "Something feels off about this one. The way he asked for you... like he knew exactly who he wanted."

Maya applied another coat of deep red lipstick, Raven's signature color. "Probably just another executive who saw the main show. They all think they're special."

Elena's reflection frowned back at her. "Just... keep your phone accessible, okay? I'll check on you if you're not back in twenty."

Maya nodded, appreciating the concern while already shifting her mind toward the performance ahead. Private rooms required a different approach—more intimate but still controlled, creating an illusion of accessibility while maintaining rigid boundaries. She checked her appearance one final time: Raven stared back from the mirror, confident and untouchable.

The corridor leading to the private rooms was dimly lit, plush carpeting muffling her footsteps. Maya used these moments to fully inhabit her Raven persona—shoulders back, chin slightly lifted, gaze direct but revealing nothing. She reviewed her standard responses to typical requests, the polite but firm boundaries she would enforce, the careful balance between profitability and personal dignity she had perfected over years.

Outside the Onyx Room, she paused, drawing a measured breath. The heavy door opened silently on well-oiled hinges, revealing an interior designed to create the illusion of intimacy—low lighting, velvet seating, strategically placed mirrors. Her entrance was choreographed to command attention, but the practiced introduction died on her lips as recognition jolted through her.

Dominic Westwood sat centered on the black leather sofa, one arm extended casually along its back, his posture suggesting ownership of the space. The same man who had watched her with such unsettling intensity the previous night. Up close, his features appeared even more striking—sharp cheekbones, penetrating gray eyes that assessed rather than leered, mouth set in a neutral line that revealed nothing of his thoughts.

Maya maintained her smooth stride despite her internal alarm, stopping at the calculated distance that established professional boundaries. "Good evening," she began, her voice pitched to Raven's lower, more controlled register. "I'm—"

"Maya Reyes," he interrupted, his tone conversational yet firm. "Though you prefer Raven while working, I understand."

The sound of her real name in this space sent ice through her veins, but years of performance allowed her to reveal nothing beyond a momentary stillness. She assessed him with new wariness, noting the perfectly tailored suit that spoke of custom work rather than merely expensive, the subtle watch that probably cost more than six months of her rent, the deliberate casualness that indicated complete comfort with power.

"I think you're mistaken," she replied coolly, though they both knew he wasn't. "If you'd prefer someone else—"

"I'm not mistaken." He gestured to the chair positioned across from him. "Please, sit. This conversation will be easier if we dispense with pretenses."

Maya remained standing, maintaining whatever small advantage her height afforded in heels. "I don't have conversations with clients. If you're not interested in a dance, I'll need to return to the floor."

Dominic's mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. "I'm interested in the Aurora Theater. Just as you are."

The reference to the theater in this space—her carefully separated world—felt like a physical blow. Maya's mind raced through possibilities: competitor for the property, investigative reporter, someone from her old neighborhood who recognized her. None seemed to fit the man before her.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.

"You're fifty thousand dollars short of the purchase price," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "And you have approximately two weeks before the seller accepts another offer." He paused, watching her reaction. "My offer, specifically."

Understanding crashed through her. Not just anyone who knew about the theater—the competing buyer himself. Maya's thoughts spun wildly before settling into focused clarity. This wasn't coincidence. He had sought her out, investigated her.

"What do you want?" she asked, abandoning pretense.

Something flickered in his eyes—approval, perhaps, at her directness. "Please, sit. I dislike having conversations at cross-angles."

This time, Maya took the offered seat, perching at its edge, ready to rise. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier with significance.

"I'm prepared to ensure you get the theater," Dominic said, each word precise. "Fully funded, with the deed transferred directly to you."

Maya studied him, searching for the trap. "And what do you want in return? Because if you're looking for insider information on the neighborhood or trying to use me to silence community opposition—"

A short laugh interrupted her, seemingly genuine in its surprise. "Nothing so complicated. What I want is simple." He leaned forward slightly. "Seven nights of your time. On my terms."

The implication hung in the air between them. Maya felt heat rise to her face—not embarrassment but indignation.

"If you think you can buy me—"

"I think nothing of the sort," he interjected, his tone cooling. "I'm offering a straightforward exchange. The theater would be legally yours before our first meeting—an irrevocable transfer. Seven nights, spread over seven weeks. No public appearances, nothing that would compromise your standing in your community."

Maya's mind raced through calculations and implications. The theater—her mother's theater—secured without question. Her vision for the community arts center guaranteed. The promise she had made at her mother's bedside fulfilled.

But at what cost?

"Why?" she asked finally, the single word encompassing multiple questions. Why her? Why this arrangement? Why would he give up valuable property for such an exchange?

Dominic studied her for a moment before answering. "Let's say I'm curious about someone who wants something as badly as I typically do." His gaze traveled over her face, not her body, as if searching for something. "You've created quite separate worlds for yourself, Ms. Reyes. I find that... interesting."

"You know nothing about my worlds," she said, voice low and controlled.

"I know you dance here to fund the theater purchase. I know you mentor youth at the Hope Street Community Center. I know your mother taught dance at the Aurora before it closed." He delivered these facts without inflection, simply demonstrating the extent of his research. "I know you're willing to do what's necessary to achieve your goals, but you have lines you won't cross."

Maya felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with her revealing costume and everything to do with the compartmentalized life she'd built being laid bare by a stranger. The violation felt more intimate than any physical intrusion.

"And what exactly would these seven nights entail?" she asked, hating the question even as she spoke it.

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, perhaps, that she was even considering his proposition. "That would depend on the night. Conversation. Your company. Perhaps more, if mutually desired."

"If you think I'll sleep with you for property—"

"I've made no such explicit request," he interrupted, his tone remaining business-like. "Though I won't pretend physical attraction isn't a factor in my interest."

Maya stood abruptly, needing distance. The room's mirrors reflected her from multiple angles, Raven's confident exterior contrasting with the turmoil she felt within. The theater was everything—her mother's legacy, the community's need, her own dream of creating something meaningful. Yet this proposition threatened to reduce her to exactly what she had fought against being seen as—a body to be purchased.

"I won't engage in anything degrading," she said finally, turning to face him.

"I would expect nothing less," he replied, remaining seated. "Self-respect is part of what makes you... compelling."

Maya gathered her wrap more tightly around herself, a gesture that felt futile given how much he already knew about her. "I need to think about this."

"Of course." He reached into his jacket, extracting a business card that he placed on the small table between them. "My private number. I'll need your answer within forty-eight hours."

She made no move to take the card, instead walking toward the door with as much dignity as she could muster. At the threshold, she paused, looking back at him. "Why would someone like you need to make this kind of arrangement? Surely there are women who would willingly—"

"I'm not interested in willing women in general," he interrupted, his gaze direct. "I'm interested in you, specifically. And what drives you."

The statement hung in the air, neither compliment nor insult, simply assessment. Maya left without another word, maintaining her composure until she was well down the corridor. Only then did her steps falter, one hand reaching for the wall to steady herself.

The theater—her mother's theater—within reach. But at what cost?

In the dressing room, Elena immediately noticed her expression. "What happened? Did he try something?" Her hand already reached for the small canister of pepper spray she kept in her locker.

"No, nothing like that." Maya sank onto the bench, suddenly exhausted. "It's complicated."

Quickly, she outlined Dominic's identity and proposition, watching Elena's expression shift from concern to outrage to calculating consideration.

"That's...actually a pretty clean offer, legally speaking," Elena said finally, her paralegal training evident. "If he transfers the property first, you'd have significant protection."

"That's not the point," Maya countered, rubbing her temples. "It's the principle."

"Principles don't fund community centers," Elena replied gently. "But I get it. Men with that kind of wealth and power—they think everything has a price." She squeezed Maya's shoulder. "Whatever you decide, I've got your back."

Maya nodded gratefully, though her thoughts remained tangled. As she finished her shift, going through the motions with professional precision if not her usual focus, she kept returning to the image of the theater—peeling paint on the marquee, faded murals on the ceiling, the stage where her mother had once taught her to dance.

*I promise I'll save it, Mamá. Somehow.*

Outside Obsidian, the night air cool against her skin, Maya reached into her bag for her keys. Her fingers brushed something rigid—a business card that hadn't been there before. Somehow, he had managed to slip it into her bag despite her never taking the one he offered.

Dominic Westwood, CEO, Westwood Development. Below the corporate information, a handwritten number.

Maya stared at it for a long moment before tucking it into her wallet rather than the trash.

The theater—her mother's theater—within reach. But at what cost?