Chapter 8
Genevieve
Early morning sunlight streams through the glass windows as I address the group before me. “Thank you all for coming.”
Scanning the conference room, I meet the eyes of all forty of my employees, as well as my security team.
Carissa is nestled in the corner, huddled in on herself, the sleeves of her hoodie pulled down past her hands. Her face and neck are a canvas of purple and blue, but I know that if she were to remove her clothes, I’d find far more sadistic artwork.
Gritting my teeth, I look away.
“As you all know, one of our own was assaulted by a client last night. While Milton Torres has been taken care of, I’d like to reiterate the importance of being extra cautious.”
When I get a few nods, I go on, “I was hoping we could take a moment to divide up Carissa’s and Liam’s clients. I’ll take Donna Hensley since she used to be mine.”
Donna is a newly appointed Supreme Court Justice, and it might be a good time to remind her of who holds her secrets.
Our group spends the next few minutes dividing up the rest of the clients. I’m about to dismiss the meeting when Liam pipes up, “What about Samuel Choi?”
My brow furrows. “Is he still seeing you?”
For some reason, I assumed he’d take some time away from this establishment after his wife passed. Evidently not.
“He never stopped. He was here the day after Vera died.”
Interesting. I choose not to comment on that, though, gnawing on my lip absently as I think. “I’ll take him.”
“He prefers men, Allie.”
A throbbing starts at my temple, spreading behind my eye socket. Thankfully, Nathaniel speaks up then, saving my brain from exploding. “I’ll take him if you take Elliott Leplee. He’s bisexual, so he might be okay with the swap. I’ll talk to him about it.”
I nod absently. Elliott is the director of Homeland Security. Oh, I can certainly make that work.
Once that’s settled, I dismiss everyone but ask Corinne and the security team to stick around for a moment.
“How can we tighten things down? I know that not everything is preventable, but what happened last night never should’ve happened in the first place. I shouldn’t be having to enforce the rules.”
Marcus nods. I’m not telling him anything he doesn’t already know, especially considering he’s been with me since the very beginning.
The rules are good, solid. We haven’t had an incident in three years, and even then, it wasn’t this bad.
“We’ll expand the team and increase the number of security personnel per floor from two to four.”
I nod, thinking. “Let’s add some additional panic buttons to the rooms on the fourth floor and increase the security guards there to five. I’d like all sessions involving impact play to take place there. There simply isn’t enough room on the second floor to accommodate the riskier sessions.”
Everyone agrees and moves to leave, but I capture Marcus before he can make an exit. “See if you can track down Bree. I’d like to have a conversation with her.”
The look he gives me has me affirming, “A conversation, Marcus, just a conversation.”
“For now,” he mutters, and there’s no need to correct him.
“It’s late. You should go home, Gen,” Corinne says, and I glance at the clock to find it nearing eight in the evening. I’ve been busy trying to organize my calendar and squeezing in a session with one of my clients. I’m tired, and I haven’t been home in more than twenty-four hours.
“Don’t make me drag you out of here by your hair,” Corinne warns, and I chuckle.
Taking her advice, I nod, gathering my belongings before following her to the elevator. When the lift doors close, she states quietly, “There isn’t a person here who doesn’t trust you. You keep us safe, and we all appreciate that. I hope you know that.”
A soft smile touches my lips as I look at my best friend. “I don’t deserve you.”
In the lobby, Corinne slips out of the back entrance while I use the front doors. When I emerge from the building, it’s raining—misting, to be exact—but I don’t bother with the small umbrella I keep in my purse. Instead, I let the rain cleanse me of my sins, erasing my transgressions.
Striding confidently down the vacant, rain-slicked streets, I allow the moisture to soak my clothes and slide down my skin. If my designer pumps get ruined, so be it. I’ll buy new ones.
As I walk the several blocks to my home, the sky’s holy water douses me. I strip out of my wet clothes the moment I step inside, leaving them in a pile in the laundry room. Turning the shower lever as hot as it’ll go, I stare into the mirror while I wait for the bathroom to steam up.
The woman staring back at me is stony and formidable. All traces of softness from my past are gone, hardened by years of adversity. I became acquainted with sex work at a time when I needed to find myself most. The rush it gave me was heady.
Until I lost it all.
The queen whose pawn was toppled over.
I blame tenacity for what happened next: I clawed, scraped, killed, and threatened my way back up from the dark until I saw sunlight again. Then, I climbed further, into the clouds. That’s where I sit now, aware of the danger that lurks below me, but I’m too damn powerful to take down.
My demise taught me one thing, though: the only person on this planet worthy of my trust is myself.
Stepping beneath the scalding spray, I sigh, attempting to relax. I want to let go, but I’ve entirely forgotten what that’s like. I’ve been wearing this mask for so long, it’s cemented to my face.
Once I’m out of the shower and have slathered moisturizer from my neck to my toes, I dig through my extensive pajama collection, which might be the only things I value, and slip into one of my favorites: a green satin set with lace trim.
Striding through my modern home that’s as cold and aloof as I feel on the inside, I make for the kitchen.
Busying myself, I pour myself a gin martini—extra, extra dirty with four olives and a splash of lemon juice—while the news anchor’s deep timbre provides soothing background noise as he informs the public of the growing tensions in Kazakhstan.
As I wait for the dinner my chef prepared for me to heat up, I reach for the huge slice of frosted strawberry cake in the refrigerator.
The best part of being an adult is choosing what order to have dessert in, and for me, it’s always first. Life is short.
I’ve just grabbed a fork when my phone vibrates on the counter.
I sigh when the cadence tells me it’s not a text, and I groan even before I look to see who might be calling me.
When I see the name flashing across the screen, I close my eyes for a moment.
I should’ve known I’d be hearing from him after last night’s gala.
“Hey, sugar,” Henry drawls the moment I accept his call.
His voice is low, even as noisy background sounds filter through.
He must be in public, which is odd, considering how private he likes to keep our relationship.
Probably for his wife’s sake, or maybe his kids?
Though, I know for a fact that his wife is fucking their French housekeeper, and his daughter is a client of Nathaniel’s.
Perhaps it’s more about keeping his career as a lifelong politician safe.
Fortifying myself, I take a sip of my martini, praying the gin kicks in fast. “What can I do for you?”
“A friend of mine wants to meet you.”
Falling onto one of the bar seats at my kitchen island, I drop my head into my palm.
I don’t have the patience for this. Sounding disinterested, I tell him, “I see. Well, you can tell your friend that my books are closed. I’m not taking on any new clients, but I’d be happy to set him up with one of my ladies. ”
“I told him that,” he rushes out nervously, and I wonder where he is and why the hell he’s calling me in public to discuss this. “But he was quite…persistent that it be you. You are the best, though, so I can understand.”
I wish I could say that I’m immune to flattery, but I’m not. Although, he’s going to have to do better than that if he wants me to relent. To my surprise, he adds in a hushed whisper, “He’s willing to pay.”
That captures my attention, and my left eyebrow arches as I take another sip of my drink in order to suppress a snort. That’s what they all say. When I don’t reply, he insists, “He’s good for it, I promise.”
Curiosity claws at my brain feverishly, like a house cat that escaped the warmth of a home in the dead of winter, begging to be let back inside. While I’d normally shut this shit down, something in my belly clenches. Trusting my gut, I ask, “Does your friend have a name?”
The fact that I’m even entertaining this tells me just how exhausted I am. I don’t have it in me to put up much of a fight.
“Uh…Clark.”
I roll my eyes. It’s not uncommon for a client to give a fake name, which is clearly what’s happening here, but their identity never stays hidden for long.
Sighing, I fold like a house of cards. “I’ll meet with him, but I make no promises. My assistant will send him the instructions. Tell him that he’ll need to pay the deposit before the meeting.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll tell him.” Henry sounds relieved. Why?
“And Henry?” I say sternly, using my Domme voice. “The whole deposit.”
I don’t need to tell him what that means. He knows.