Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
Nothing about it asked for attention. Everything about it breathed secrecy.
Sofia smiled the moment she saw it. Margaretta went quiet, her excitement bleeding into nerves she didn’t bother to hide, her knee bouncing nonstop.
My skin prickled in a way that had nothing to do with the cold—the same instinctive reaction I’d learned to trust in places built on absolute control.
Places like the monastery I’d been forced to live in for more than two years after boarding school.
This wasn’t somewhere you wandered into and figured out as you went.
Whatever waited inside wasn’t spontaneous. It was curated and expensive.
Sofia couldn’t sit still. “Okay. Deep breath. You’re about to have a unique kind of religious experience.”
Margaretta laughed, a little too loudly. “I’m going to throw up.”
“You’re not,” Sofia said, already reaching for the handle. “You’re going to look hot and pretend you’re not terrified.”
I stared at the door. My pulse tripped over itself. “If my father ever finds out about this, he’ll actually murder me.”
Sofia shot me a grin. “You’re right about that. All he cares about is his image and winning the Senate seat in the special election after Shoemaker died when he accidentally fell down a flight of stairs on Capitol Hill and broke his neck.”
Margaretta leaned forward, turning to Sofia. “My mom can never know.”
“Same,” Sofia said cheerfully. “Your mom would disown me.”
We stepped out onto the sidewalk just as a black sedan eased toward the curb behind us.
Sofia didn’t hesitate. She ran up the steps, crossed to the door, and activated the security panel, scanning her phone before tilting her face toward the glass.
A brief flash of light passed over her eyes.
The lock disengaged with a muted click. We were inside a few seconds later, the door closing smoothly at our backs.
Inside, a dimly lit hallway stretched ahead, lit from below by wall sconces. The intentional quiet tightened something in my chest as we moved toward the door at the end. The aroma of jasmine and sandalwood followed us down the corridor, warm and intimate, impossible to ignore.
A woman in a modern black suit sat behind a desk and welcomed us with a perfect smile. She was polished and refined, her short black hair perfectly styled, her makeup flawless.
“Good evening, ladies. It’s wonderful to have you with us on such an exciting night. Please have a seat, review the special event documents, and we’ll get you on your way to the medical check,” she said, sliding three tablets across the desk.
We sat, lifting the electronic pens clipped to the sides.
“These are waivers. Read carefully,” the woman warned.
I skimmed. Assumption of risk. No liability for injury. Consent may be withdrawn at any time. Safe words enforced. The language was legalese, sterile, which somehow made my skin prickle more.
Margaretta stared down at the tablet like a deer in headlights.
Sofia didn’t hesitate. Her signature was a flourish. “You’re fine,” she murmured, lowering her voice. “They’re obsessive about rules.”
Margaretta mouthed holy shit and signed anyway.
Sofia was already on her feet and heading for the next door before I finished scrawling my name on the last page. I prayed I hadn’t just signed away my firstborn child. But what choice did I have? I wasn’t about to sit here for an hour combing through documents I had no power to change.
The woman collected the tablets and tilted her head toward the door. “The health screening only takes a couple of minutes. You can relax. You’re in very good hands tonight.”
Moments later, we were standing in a sleek room with stainless steel counters and soft lighting. A nurse took our blood with efficient calm, labeled the vials, and checked our results. No judgment. No questions. Just protocol.
When it was over, a discreet gold bracelet was fastened around my wrist.
A secure door opened and we were guided down another hallway, then into a dressing room, a costume vault for sin.
Lingerie hung in rows—lace, leather, silk. Masks with gold filigree. Crowns. Capes. Collars laid out like jewelry. Everything gleamed under the warm lights. It was beyond anything I could have imagined.
Margaretta froze. “Oh my God.”
Sofia laughed, delighted. “Right?”
She kicked off her heels and wandered with the delight of a kid in a candy store. “Okay, rules refresher while we change. This place is called The Black Ledger. It’s invitation-only, stupidly expensive, and the vetting is insane. That’s why it’s so safe.”
I picked up a mask and turned it over in my hands. “Safe,” I echoed, guessing it depended on your definition of safe.
“It is,” she said matter-of-factly. “No obligation. Ever. You say no, it’s no. You stop, it stops. Safe words are gospel. Well—except on the stage, because sometimes it’s hard to hear over the crowd, so you really have to shout them if you need to.”
Margaretta swallowed. “A stage?”
Sofia’s eyes lit. “Yes! It’s the center attraction—a theater in the round.
It’s very exclusive to be chosen to participate.
Production managers scout the house, and if they like what they see, they invite you to play a part.
” She tipped her head and whispered, “I’ve been invited twice before, and let me tell you, it was the best sex I’ve ever had. ”
“That sounds right for a social media queen,” Margaretta giggled.
My head was swimming, and I couldn’t tell if it was from all the booze we’d had at the dance club or from what I was about to participate in. “So what exactly happens when you accept their invitation?” I asked.
“Mostly, you just need to be submissive, and they’ll guide you through your role.” She chewed her lip, lost in thought for a moment.
“The last time I was here, the theme was leather and lace. It was a full-on BDSM scene with ball gags, whips, and butt plugs. It was the first time I’d ever been fully restrained.
” She fanned herself dramatically. “Boy, was that a wild experience, something you wouldn’t want to do every day, but damn—the memories are forever burned into my mind. ”
She gestured around the room as another woman entered. “Tonight’s theme is a Royal Round Table—more than one serving for your New Year’s delight.”
Margaretta snorted. “What does that even mean?”
“It means crowns and capes and people watching you as if you’re a prize,” Sofia said, breathless with excitement. “It means a spectacle. More than one scene.”
She tugged a lace bodysuit off the rack and held it up to herself, grinning. “I hope I get picked.”
Margaretta blinked. “You want to go on stage again?”
Sofia shrugged. “Being noticed here means something.”
I laughed, a little wildly. “I’m sure it does.”
She held her hand to the side of her mouth and said just for us. “Also, Giovanni is working tonight.”
“Who’s Giovanni?” Margaretta asked.
Sofia rolled her eyes fondly. “The owner. Giovanni Moretti–he’s got cryptomoney and private clubs all over the world. He’s had a crush on me forever.”
“So why aren’t you interested back?” I asked. “Is he five feet two with nasty teeth?”
“Oh, no, far from that.” She smirked. “He’s just not the type I’d ever involve myself with. I hear he’s tied to the mob—the new syndicate that’s been terrorizing the city,” she added quietly. “But he lets me bring friends, so he’s not all bad.”
Margaretta’s eyes went wide. “So…we’re here because a mob boss thinks you’re hot.”
Sofia bowed. “Correct.”
We playfully perused the racks of costumes, laughing. Margaretta’s hands shook just enough to be noticeable. I didn’t dare mention my situation back in Spain, but this wasn’t my first time navigating dangerous territory.
Sofia was already halfway undressed, humming to herself as she flipped through hangers as if she were shopping her own closet.
“Oh, this is cute,” she said, tugging free a light-pink lace teddy and holding it up. “Very royal. Very indulgent.”
Margaretta leaned closer, eyes wide. “That’s barely a thing.”
“That’s the point.” Sofia stepped out of her dress and slipped into it, adjusting the straps before draping a shimmering, iridescent cape over her shoulders.
It caught the light when she moved, shimmering.
She crowned herself with a crystal tiara, grabbed a shiny scepter from a nearby stand, and turned in a slow circle.
“Tell me I don’t look like a princess who gets everything she wants. ”
“You look like trouble,” Margaretta said, half-laughing.
Sofia grinned. “Exactly.”
“All right, you two, it’s your turn. Let’s get this show on the road.
” She tucked her clothes and heels into a locker and set the digital combination.
She looked down at her feet and wiggled her toes.
“Even my toenails are pink. By the way, everyone has to be barefoot. Stage rules to protect the floors and props.”
Margaretta groaned. “My feet are going to be freezing.”
Sofia snorted. “Give it ten minutes. You’ll have so much heat between your thighs you won’t even notice.”
Margaretta blushed as she turned back to the racks, finally settling on a bejeweled bra top and skimpy harem pants in a sheer fabric that shimmered gold when she moved.
Gauzy sleeves covered her arms, delicate and dramatic.
She studied herself in the mirror, turning slowly. “I’m a sexy genie. I love it.”
“You are,” Sofia said approvingly. “You look like a desert mirage—a fantasy for an Arabian knight.”
Margaretta hugged herself, smiling nervously. “Okay. I’m kind of into it.”