Ellis
tugged at the sleeves of his cream Henley, the nicest thing he owned that wasn’t obviously “working clothes.” The soft fabric hung loose over dark-wash jeans that clung in ways that would draw attention without screaming escort. Beneath them, the lace thong, his only pair, bought with tips since Donovan didn’t provide a clothing allowance like Union houses did—scratched against sensitive skin. The cheap material would leave marks, nothing like the silk and satin the Union escorts wore, but it satisfied the client’s lingerie requirement.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the Lumière’s extravagant lobby.
Of all the casinos in PDC, the Lumière stood apart—literally. While every other respectable gambling establishment had migrated to the neon-drenched shores of the Fourth Cat across the Mississippi, the Lumière remained firmly planted on the Missouri side, where the city’s first casino had opened over a century ago.
The place had survived countless attempts to shut it down; the last effort had nearly sparked a riot when locals took to the streets to protect their historic landmark. Sure, there were other casinos on this side of the river—rough spots down in the Third Cat where dock workers bet their paychecks—but those were strictly locals only. No tourist would dare set foot there, let alone the clients who frequented the Lumière.
The lobby was awash in reds and gold, crystal glinting off nearly every surface that wasn’t marble. Three-story-high ceilings stretched overhead, dripping with massive chandeliers that cast rainbow prisms across the polished floor. The air was perfumed with something expensive and subtle that cost more per ounce than what brought in for Donovan in a month. Around him, high rollers in designer suits and cocktail dresses mingled with tourists in resort wear, their voices a constant murmur beneath the distant siren song of the slot machines.
Since he wasn’t dressed like one of the typical Union Escorts in highly revealing clothing, the lobby clerk and security ignored him. The security guards, positioned strategically near the gaming floor entrance in their perfectly tailored black suits with the Lumière logo prominently displayed on their chests, watched the casino floor. The front desk staff, in their burgundy uniforms that probably cost more than his entire wardrobe, were too busy checking in guests who carried Louis Vuitton luggage sets.
Better they didn’t spot him as a non-union escort—the Lumière had exclusive arrangements with a few of the nicer Fourth Cat union houses, and they weren’t shy about charging hefty “fees” to anyone cutting into their profits.
made his way over to the extravagant chandelier fountain, which had some significant history, but didn’t know or care about it. The fountain dominated the center of the lobby, water cascading down crystal tiers that had once hung from the ceiling, catching light and throwing it back in mesmerizing patterns. The marble basin below was studded with coins—wishes made by people with money to throw away.
A plaque with the details was ten feet from him, but had more important things to do right now than learn about some ancient lighting-turned-fountain. Like meeting the client who could afford to meet him at this establishment. Either someone wealthy enough that the Lumière’s fees didn’t matter, or stupid enough to think they could dodge them. Not his usual Johns booking rooms at those run-down motels on the outskirts of the Fourth Cat.
checked his phone. He was 15 minutes early.
Better early than late.
Or, at least, that was his thought until he spotted his client seated at the Café Rochelle.
Who Rochelle was, couldn’t say.
The man sitting in the café section next to the fountain didn’t seem like someone who would pay for sex, especially not from a rundown, non-union cathouse like Heart Court. Everything about him radiated old money and corporate power—from the black tailored suit that seemed to drink in the light to the deep red button-down underneath. He was the type who would usually seek discreet services tucked away in luxurious Second Cat mansions, not low-ball it at a Fourth Cat joint with one of Kevin Donovan’s budget options.
Donovan’s words from earlier rang in ’ mind: “real money, actual connections.” rubbed his chin, remembering the bruising grip. Someone who’d done Donovan a favor, now getting repaid with at half-price.
Maybe this was his client, after all, strange as it seemed. Instead of making private arrangements through exclusive channels, here he sat in the flashy Lumière Casino, staring intently at his tablet with a frown creasing the space between his eyebrows as if he were reviewing quarterly projections rather than waiting for an escort.
His height was apparent even seated—he would tower over when standing. His rich chestnut hair caught the light, and though couldn’t make out the exact color of his eyes from this distance, he could tell they weren’t brown.
Through long practice, kept his face neutral as he approached, even as his mind raced at how out of place this man was to be meeting him. Everything about him radiated wealth and status that Heart Court never saw—from the cut of his suit to his perfectly manicured nails. This wasn’t the type of man who’d even know Heart Court existed, let alone seek its services. Even their wealthier clients were low-level executives and local business owners, not whatever corporate aristocrat this man was.
Every instinct screamed that there had to be some mistake, but couldn’t afford to walk away. Not if he wanted to keep his spot at Heart Court.
With a deep breath and all the desperate courage he could muster, approached the stranger. He slid easily into the seat next to the man, a smile plastered on his face.
He hoped it didn’t look as fake as it felt.
The man’s eyes shot up to meet his; they were intensely blue before roaming over the rest of his body. The man didn’t say anything; he merely turned off his tablet before setting it next to his coffee.
never understood how people could drink coffee this late at night. Any caffeine that went into his system past 4 pm would keep him awake all night.
continued to smile, waiting for the man to say something that would confirm he was the client Donovan sent him to meet. The man’s arctic stare traced over ’ body before fixing on his cheek, where knew the concealer was doing a poor job hiding the darkening bruise. Every instinct told to turn his head, to hide the mark, but he forced himself to hold still under that cold assessment. The silence stretched uncomfortably, making his rehearsed greeting stick in his throat.
Awkward.
“I’m , from Heart Court.” withdrew his calling card from his pants pocket and handed it to the man. “I’m yours for the night.” winced internally. That sounded cheap and desperate.
“Are you now?” The man’s bass timber rolled over like the tide. He studied the card briefly before slipping it into an inner pocket on his suit jacket. “How much for the night, Anouilh?” His perfect, rolling pronunciation sent a pleasant shiver down ’ spine.
“Already taken care of,” said. Did this man not pay his own bills? Taking in the expensive, high-end, hi-tech watch, worth more than Heart Court’s monthly revenue, and where they were meeting, the answer was probably no.
There was likely some harried accountant somewhere crunching numbers and crying into an energy drink.
“Has it?” The man smiled, though it wasn’t altogether a pleasant one.
Something deep inside of screamed at him to run.
squashed the urge. He needed this to go perfectly, or he would be back on the streets by morning. Kevin Donovan was not a man to threaten eviction lightly. In the few years had worked for the man, he had already done so to half a dozen underperforming escorts. Whatever the client before him wanted, would give him.
He stretched out and ran his fingertips over the man’s hand. “Yes, sir,” He replied coyly or attempted to. It came off just a bit left of coy, verging on sarcastic. Jean was better at playing these games, even if he was new. did his best to keep his forced smile on his face. “Did you rent a room at the Lumière? Or at a nearby hotel?”
The man grabbed ’ wrist in a punishing hold, causing him to suck in air between his teeth. For hands that looked so refined, they clamped down with a strength that reminded of the bouncers at Heart Court—a grip meant to hurt, to control.
“I was meeting someone here.” The man said, squeezing ’ wrist painfully before releasing it. “I have a small apartment in Lafayette Square. We’ll go there.” He lifted two perfectly manicured fingers in that imperious twitch that only the obscenely wealthy seemed born knowing how to do, summoning the server with his check.
“It was a pleasure serving you. Please, come again.” The server’s voice held all the warmth he’d likely been lavishing on the client all evening, though his eyes cut to with undisguised resentment.
’ client tapped his watch over the payment device, which dinged happily. The man closed his tablet and stood gracefully to his feet, pulling his suit jacket closed. With a few taps on his watch, the man turned back to .
“My driver will meet us out front.” The man gestured for to lead the way.
A driver? almost stumbled at that. In an age where even the most economical of cars drove themselves, having an actual human driver was the kind of old-money extravagance he’d only heard about. Still, he stood from the chair, nowhere near as gracefully as the man who seemed to unfold from it. strode with all the confidence he could muster toward the lobby entrance, painfully aware of how his movements must look in comparison. A warm hand settled on his lower back—possessive, steering—as they approached the doors. The bellhop bowed at their approach, reaching out and opening the doors with well-practiced deference.
“Always a pleasure, Monsieur Rohan. Please, come again.” The bellhop said, causing to stiffen momentarily.
Certainly, this man wasn’t…
“Of course, Carlo.” His client, Rohan, replied, urging forward. He handed the bellhop a crisp hundred-dollar bill. Carlo took it with ease, as if he was given large tips every day.
Maybe he was, didn’t know.
Rohan shifted to his other side with casual authority, his broad frame suddenly blocking ’ view of everything except the sleek black Mercedes sedan purring at the curb. The movement was smooth but absolute—like being caught in the current, found himself carried along in Rohan’s wake. A man in the front passenger seat was out of the car before it came to a complete stop, pulling open the door for Rohan.
’ breath caught as his client all but shoved him into the back seat before sliding in next to him. The interior smelled of leather and something subtly masculine that triggered a memory: last week, walking past that fancy cigar shop in the Fourth Cat with Jean, dreaming about better things like they always did. The digital billboard cycling through PDC’s “40 Under 40” had shown that same face, that same commanding presence.
Gabriel Rohan—CEO of La Sauvegarde, a sprawling empire that touched nearly every corner of Porte du Coeur’s economy. The conglomerate handled everything from complex financial risk modeling in its gleaming downtown headquarters to boots-on-the-ground security through its subsidiaries. They were one of the region’s largest employers, and rumor had it their reach extended far beyond legitimate business—whispers of a private military force that operated in shadows where traditional security forces couldn’t go.
And here he was, the man who controlled it all through both his position as CEO and his family’s controlling share of stock, sitting next to in the back of a luxury car that need a driver. That same face from countless magazine covers and society pages, consistently ranked among PDC’s Most Eligible Bachelors.
This had to be Gabriel, not his younger brother Henri. Henri was the family’s golden party boy, more likely to be found drowning in admirers at some exclusive nightclub than sitting alone at a casino. Henri didn’t need to pay for company; he had socialites and models practically throwing themselves at him.
Besides, Henri was blonde.
turned to face the man as the car started moving. His heart hammered against his ribs as he considered his next words. Donovan had stressed discretion and barely given him any details about his client, but then the bellhop had openly acknowledged him, hadn’t he?
“Are you,” bit his lower lip, the question feeling dangerous even as it left his mouth, “Gabriel Rohan?”
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