Chapter 1
CHANTEL
THREE YEARS LATER
A slight tremor moves through my hand as I sneak a glance at my reflection in the compact mirror.
A quick check confirms everything is the same as it was five minutes ago.
Not that I’d expect anything to budge. In burlesque, hair and makeup are an art form—the kind made to survive back-to-back performances.
After a two-hour show, my hair is still curled, my wing-tipped liner has never been sharper, and I’m wearing my most expensive dress and heels for a gathering I don’t want to attend.
It should feel like armor, but as we inch toward Marco’s house, my stomach is in knots. I’ve had this quiet feeling of dread inside me all day, knowing what I’d have to do tonight. With how the last few months have been, it’s long overdue.
When I first met Marco, he was a charismatic trust-fund heir with little to no responsibility. He was handsome, shallow, and predictable, which suited me fine. I wasn’t looking for Mr. Right, and our on-again, off-again situationship only had two clear boundaries. Exclusivity and honesty.
Things with him were never a fairy tale, and they weren’t meant to be. But ever since his father made him report for duty at their investment firm, Marco has been slowly unraveling.
The expectations to uphold the family legacy have been an eye-opening experience for both him and me.
He’s realized that he can’t get by on his family name alone, and I’ve had a front-row seat to the disastrous collapse of his ego.
As a result, he’s become irritable, insecure, and erratic. He’s been drinking more, partying harder, and our communication has been all over the place. I haven’t even seen him since he’s been away on business for the last three months, but somehow I’m still exhausted.
I didn’t want to contribute to his stress, so I waited until he was home to have this conversation. And because I don’t want to drag this out any longer, I decided it would be best to do it tonight. If I waited for a day when he didn’t have a social engagement, it would never happen.
It just needs to be a clean break.
I reapply another coat of black cherry lipstick to give my hands something to do as the car passes through the gates of the mansion.
Marco comes from old money, and this waterfront estate in Seattle’s Laurelhurst neighborhood has been passed down through generations.
The Georgian-style brick exterior is beautiful, and the interior design is curated to perfection, but frankly, none of it is really my taste.
I often find it suffocating, but maybe that’s just the company Marco keeps.
As the car rolls to a stop on the driveway, that feeling doesn’t improve when I glance out the window and notice the other guests are already here.
Marco told me the party was starting later, which is why I intended to get here early.
But apparently, that was another miscommunication, which has been happening a lot lately.
Stephan exits the driver’s seat and comes around to open my door.
The silver-haired gentleman is one of Marco’s drivers, and I have a direct line to him, so he can pick me up without inconveniencing Marco.
We’ve established a rapport during our trips together, and he usually tells me about his wife and grandkids to pass the time.
But tonight, he seems quieter than usual, and as I step outside and meet his gaze, I catch a flash of what looks like pity in his eyes.
It feels like confirmation that all is not as it seems, though I’m not sure it really matters at this point.
“Do I look okay?” I smooth out my dress in an attempt to dispel my nerves.
“Beautiful as ever, Miss St. James.” He offers me a stiff smile.
“You always say that.” I force some levity into my voice.
“Well, it’s always true.”
I thank him, and we part ways.
When I reach the front entrance, I’m greeted by an unfamiliar doorman, which is a good indication that this is a much larger event than I anticipated.
When Marco told me he was having a party to celebrate his return, I was expecting his closest friends. But from the looks of it, half of Seattle’s upper crust is in attendance tonight. Or more accurately, the elite underworld known as Imperium Valens Invictum—AKA The Society.
IVI owns the club I work for, and it’s where Marco and I first crossed paths. In that setting, it was easy to overlook the vast differences between our current worlds. But on occasions such as this, it’s impossible to forget.
As I enter the house and make my way through the crowd, I can’t miss the leering gazes of familiar men or the judgmental glances from their wives. It’s a welcome I’ve come to expect from Marco’s friends.
In their minds, I’m nothing more than a temporary distraction he’ll discard once he decides to marry a respectable woman.
I’ve tried not to let it bother me because I had no intention of proving them otherwise.
In that regard, Marco and I have always been on the same page.
I knew expectations would eventually require him to marry a Society daughter.
And in return, he understood that I didn’t want an emotional attachment and that I had rules around my personal boundaries.
No kissing. No cuddling. No sleeping in the same bed. And most importantly, no lies.
Our conversations revolve around safe topics, and we ask very little of each other.
He doesn’t question me about my past, and we don’t talk about the future.
Up until recently, it’s worked for us. But lately, his behavior has been giving me whiplash.
And at this point in my life, it’s made me evaluate more than just this relationship.
I’ve survived by staying detached, and I’ve tried to convince myself I’m fine with what I have. Still, it’s been hard to ignore the itch deep inside. The want for more.
As I watch my friends settle down and have families of their own, it reminds me that was the life I once dreamed of.
That ember of aching emptiness inside me burns hotter every day, filling my head with ideas I’ve tried so desperately to kill.
Permanence isn’t even a conscious thought to most of the people in this room.
They know, without question, that they have a steady foundation to lay down roots and grow.
For me, those things are a fantasy I can never truly indulge.
But when my eyes land on Marco across the room—with his ex at his side—I know there has to be more than this.
My stomach sours at the prospect of conversing with her, however briefly it may be, and I have to wonder why she’s even here.
Isobel Fairchild is a model, an heiress, and a perpetual thorn in my side. She’s known for being sweet with a poisonous bite, and I’ve found that to be an accurate description from my interactions with her.
I haven’t given her a spare thought since she flitted off to Europe with her new billionaire boyfriend. But if she’s back in the city, there’s a good chance she’s single again.
I’m not remotely prepared to deal with her tonight, but she’s already seen me, so there’s no running now.
Marco catches my gaze as I approach him, tension flickering in his eyes before he offers me a smile. He looks surprised to see me, and my discomfort only grows.
I’ve never truly felt comfortable with him in social settings because of our perceived class differences, and though he hasn’t said so, I know he keeps me under a certain level of containment.
We never went anywhere in public together for the first year of our arrangement, and even now, he’s selective about where he invites me.
He doesn’t like to label our relationship in the presence of his friends, but it wouldn’t matter if he did. Most of his associates treat me like I’m an escort, and there’s no point trying to defend myself. I learned a long time ago that people are going to think what they want.
“Hey,” Marco greets me. “I didn’t think you could make it tonight.”
“I told you I would be here.” I stare at him, wondering if he completely blanked out our last conversation, or if there’s something else going on.
“Yes, it’s such a surprise to see you, Chandra,” Isobel butts in. “I thought you usually spent your nights entertaining men at that little club of yours.”
I shoot Marco a sidelong glance, waiting for him to say something in my defense, but he sips from his drink as if he didn’t hear her.
“It’s Chantel,” I remind her for the thousandth time. “And I’m all out of performances tonight. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Ah, well, that’s a shame. I’m sure Marco’s guests would have loved to see one, but I suppose it would be hard to put on a show without a pole.”
I don’t bother correcting her because she knows damn well I’m not a stripper, but she makes a point to say something like that every time she sees me. She wants a reaction, and I won’t give her one. But Isobel never admits defeat easily.
Her shrewd gaze rakes over my vintage black pencil dress as she makes a vague gesture with her hand. “I love this aesthetic you’ve committed to. It’s so…nostalgic.”
“Just like a 1950’s housewife.” Her friend Libby snorts. “It must be so nice not to care about current trends.”
A beat passes as I watch Marco drain the whiskey in his glass, pretending to be even more oblivious than usual.
“Can we talk?” I ask him.
“Right now?” He glances around the room, avoiding my gaze. “I have guests.”
“They’ll still be here in ten minutes,” I assure him.
Sighing as if this is the world’s biggest inconvenience, he mutters his apologies to the other women before he leads me down the hall to the library. Once we’re alone, his entire demeanor shifts and he grabs me by the hips, tugging me closer.
“You look hot tonight.” He breathes the words down my neck.
I pull away, irritated that he thinks if he tosses a compliment my way, I’ll forget what just happened.
“Funny you didn’t mention that when your friends were insulting me.”
He huffs out an annoyed sound, wandering over to the bar cart to pour two drinks.
“Are you really going to pick a fight with me right now?”