Prologue: Rosalie
Four years ago - Age 21
Ducking into the ladies' room, I check that I’m alone before locking the stall door. The slip of paper burns a hole in my palm. Memorizing the room number, I read it one more time before shredding it into tiny pieces and flushing it down the toilet. I don’t want the poor waiter, who discreetly passed it to me while circling the ballroom, to get in trouble. After all, information is power.
With all the grief I’ve gone through tracking down a professor, blackmailing him into telling me Martín’s location, and setting me up with a contact on the inside, I’m not about to let this opportunity go to waste.
Slipping my gloves back on, I quickly check my appearance in the mirror. I’m not a bad-looking girl, but tonight my outfit puts casual Rosalie to shame. My long hair is curled in loose beach waves, gently framing my face. A simple yet tasteful gold chain locket dangles from my neck, complementing the dangling gold earrings peeking from beneath my dark hair. It naturally guides the gaze toward my sweetheart neckline.
The shimmering maroon dress drapes loosely over my shoulders before tapering in, accentuating my hourglass figure and long legs. My favorite feature is the thigh-high slit that allows for a comfortable breeze, a slight tease, and, most importantly, easy mobility. You never know when you might get in a pinch and need to flee quickly. And finally, the pièce de résistance—two elbow-length matching maroon gloves—to class up the outfit, but also to remove any evidence of fingerprints.
With one last splash of water, I cool my nerves and steel myself for meeting the devil himself—Martín Gonzales, ringmaster of Circo del Sol.
Knock, knock.
The door opens; the space filled with none other than Martín. Clearly, he wasn't expecting me, but he was expecting someone.
Martín Gonzales is a porky, middle-aged man who sports one of those gross pornstar mustaches. Originally from Baja Sur, Mexico, he grew up on the streets and has contacts with all the major gangs and cartels that run the peninsula. After joining the circus as a kid, he traveled and eventually took over as the ringmaster of Circo del Sol.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Martín slyly grins.
I lean seductively against the doorframe, popping a leg forward, showing a hint of the slit. As intended, Martín leers, skimming down my body with a sweeping gaze.
“Well, I was actually looking for someone,” I purr. “Are you the infamous Martín Gonzales?”
His eyes make their way back up to mine. “Depends on who’s asking?”
“Oh, just little ol’ me, Señor. I've heard so much about you, and after seeing the show yesterday I had to meet you in person.” I smirk coyly. “See for myself if you're as magnificent at activities outside of the ring as you are in it.”
Letting the implications linger, Martín takes the bait.
“Well, Bella, you’re in luck. I'm Martín.” He extends his hand to my gloved one, drawing it in for a kiss. “And you might be?”
“Rosa.” I lie, batting my eyelashes in what I can only hope appears seductive. “May I join you tonight, Señor Martín? I think you'd very much enjoy my company.”
Sliding the door open, he steps to the side, and waves me in. “Sí, sí Bella, come on in. I'm sure we can find some way to pass the time.” The sexual undertones hang thick in the air.
Fake smile plastered in place, I push down the acid threatening to make an appearance and slink past him while he turns to lock the door.
His suite is more lavish than your standard hotel room. It has a lovely sitting area fitted with a plush couch and matching chair surrounding a small coffee table. Tall windows frame one wall, providing a stunning view of the ocean. The corner sports an upscale minibar, featuring a few full-sized bottles of wine, whiskey, and tequila. Around the corner is a door leading to the master bedroom and en-suite.
Making myself at home, I perch on the loveseat, crossing my legs at the ankle.
“Shall we take this to the bedroom, Bella?” Martín asks while gesturing around the bend.
“Actually, Señor—” I start to reply before he interrupts.
“Bella, por favor, with how well you and I plan to become acquainted, just Martín will suffice.” He insists.
“Sí, gracias. I was actually hoping we could start with something a bit more...
refreshing—perhaps a drink while I get to know the man behind the maravilloso Martín.” I lean forward, drawing his eyes to my cleavage while he absently agrees.
“A great idea. What's your poison, Bella?” He makes his way to the bar. “We have some fine red wine imported directly from Italy or a white from one of my vineyards in Napa Valley.”
“Perhaps something stronger?” I suggest. “I'm partial to good tequila myself.”
“Ah!” He claps his hands in delight. “A woman after my own heart! I too appreciate a fine tequila or mezcal.” He reaches into the mini freezer, grabbing two frosted tumblers. Tipping two fingers’ worth of tequila into each glass, he walks back to the couch, passing me my drink and joining me on the loveseat.
“Gracias, Señor.” I continue with the formalities, hoping it gives the illusion of power and control to this slimy man.
“De nada, Bella.”
“Before we get too comfortable, would you mind helping me with my shoes?” I sigh dramatically, draping my leg across his lap. His gaze immediately trails from my cleavage to the slit splitting at my thigh. “My feet are so tired from standing all day.” My dramatic flair borders on cringy, but he’s eating my act up like a starving lion served a gazelle on a silver platter.
Setting his glass on the coffee table, he starts just above the knee—sliding his hands down my calf to the tiny clasp at my ankle.
“Of course, it would be my pleasure.” He replies with a creepy smirk. He lingers for a moment too long at each dip and curve.
As he fusses with my shoe buckle, I tug gently on the middle finger of my glove, slipping it off and dropping a discreet pill into my palm. He motions for the other leg just as I finish removing the other glove, providing the perfect opportunity to set them down on the coffee table while he's distracted by my feet and increasing skin showing.
With a skilled sleight of hand, my palm successfully drops the little pill into his tequila—dissolving before it can hit the bottom of the glass. Success! Now, to make sure he drinks the whole thing.
Martín takes the liberty of starting to massage my foot. It could have been considered kind had he been anyone else. A sleazy guy like him can turn any innocent action into a repulsive affair.
Keeping my sex-kitten persona at the forefront, I force a soft, breathy moan from my lips. Pointing my toes, I place one foot on his chest, leaving my other foot resting on his lap. As the massage continues, Martín’s touch wanders up my calf.
A few more stretches and moans, and he’s ready to go. I switch to a more aggressive tactic. I pull my feet from his grasp, placing my tumbler on the coffee table next to Martín’s long forgotten drink.
I really need him to finish his drink before my entire plan’s ruined.
Pressing on his shoulders, I shove the bile down as I straddle his lap. Making a show of tossing my curled hair over one shoulder, I lean forward and whisper into his ear. “So, Señor, are we having fun yet?”
Martín chuckles darkly. “Oh, we’re just getting started, Bella.”
With both palms on his chest, I apply a little pressure to get his attention on me. “I must admit, there is another reason I was looking for you tonight—beyond attempting to seduce you.”
Martín eyes me with a grim chuckle. “You make it sound so formal. Are you in some kind of trouble?” His hands move north, gripping the outsides of my thighs.
“No, no, nothing like that! I actually have a proposition for you.” Digging my claws into his chest, I bring my lips close to his ear. “I believe you can start my interview now.”
He pulls back. “Interview? What would I even be interviewing you for?” He squints skeptically.
Still straddling his lap, I lean, doing a full backbend to pick up his drink and placing it between my tits for him to take with his mouth. He eagerly wraps his lips around the edge, shooting the remaining liquid in one giant gulp.
“I’m not hiring right now,” Martín chokes out, the tequila burning his throat. He leans closer to bury his nose where the glass was, focused solely on the promise of sex.
“You might not be, but I couldn’t help but notice you are all alone in the center ring.” I walk my fingers up his chest, leaning closer to his ear, taunting him. Teasing him. I bite my lower lip, in a practiced seductive pout. “Not a ringmistress in sight. It must be lonely not having a sexy little thing hanging on your arm to help keep the audience interested. A man with your kind of power should have a whole harem of mistresses at his feet.”
Our game of cat and mouse begins, dancing around being insulting and insinuating that he cannot do the job of ringmaster on his own, while actively laying the framework for Martín to come to his own conclusion that a ringmistress would be a welcome addition to his circus.
“Oh, really now? And I don’t suppose you know anyone with the qualifications who might fill this void?” he asks, still quite distracted by having my tits so close to his face and my pussy hovering just out of reach of his now fully erect cock.
“Actually,” I purr into his ear, “I am more than qualified. I can do all the tricks: splits, flips, acrobatics.” I lower my hips just enough to brush the tip of his dick with my gyration.
“And you seem to enjoy the sight of me in a dress.”
“Hmm, you make a good point.” He slurs, the drugs slowly taking effect.
“Let’s make a deal,” I encourage, needing to speed this negotiation along before he’s rendered completely unconscious. “I get to perform in one show with you. If it goes well, you hire me as your full-time ringmistress. If it goes horribly, I’ll disappear and no one will be any the wiser.”
Nodding off, it takes increasingly more effort to hold his head upright. “Seems fair to me,” he slurs. “Meet me at the big top one hour before showtime. Give them... my business card... at the entrance... they’ll show you back.”
I smile, my first genuine one of the evening. “Wonderful. I’ll need your business card then, Señor.” I continue purring.
“Oh, Bella... enough business... that is talk... for the... morning.” He leans in, sloppily taking my mouth in his. Within minutes, Martín’s lips falter and he slouches forward, passing out on the couch.
Phew. I was getting worried about how long he'd been conscious. My mouth desperately yearns for mouthwash and a mint.
Phase one of my plan is complete. Now it's time to execute phase two.
I hop off his lap and shudder, trying to shake off the fact that he was touching me only seconds earlier. Sliding my gloves back on, I slip my arms under his armpits—dragging him awkwardly along the floor toward the master suite. I strip him, mess up the sheets, and half-tuck him in. Throwing his clothes in a haphazard pattern on the floor, I create a scene that implies we were too passionate to care where they fell in the heat of the moment.
Grabbing his boxers off the floor, I run some water in the bathroom—making it look like there were more bodily fluids involved than there actually were. I turn on the shower, running it for a few minutes while I get to work on rumpling the towels. Everything alludes to a passionate round two in the shower after round one.
You’re probably wondering, Rosalie, why are you going to such extreme lengths to pretend like you had sex with Martín?
One, I am absolutely not actually putting out for this man. He’s the worst of the worst. El Diablo himself.
Two, despite not actually doing it, I need Martín to believe that we had a splendid night filled with heat and passion—so when I execute phase three of my plan, he’s primed and ready to extend a full-time offer for ringmistress.
Stripping off his last sock, I swipe a business card from his wallet—leaving the room looking like Vikings ravaged it. I quietly exit the hotel and make my way out the back stairwell to my car.
Phase two is complete. Now to begin the last steps of infiltrating Circo del Sol and taking out their ringmaster.
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