35. Chapter 35 Margot
Chapter thirty-five
Agreeing to a meeting at eleven in the morning is not something I would usually do, but I’d really rather get this initial walk-through at Rendezvous Too completed first thing so that I can move on to more enjoyable pursuits.
Luckily for me, I managed to book a promotional event for our jewelry store collab just after this, so I’m in full glam and a sinful dress before noon.
Nobody will accuse me of not embodying my own collections today.
My black silk dress is relatively demure from the front, with a modest neckline.
It’s tight, though, showing off my curves to full effect.
The back, well, doesn’t exist. I’ll be wearing a diamond necklace reversed to hang down between my shoulders for the event, the pendant resting just above the dimples at my lower back.
A little well-placed tape and I’m able to go bra-free and maintain the illusion that my tits are impervious to gravity.
Mom is away playing pickleball, so my New York right-hand man, Marco, is accompanying me to see what Jack’s new club has scrounged up to present to us.
Although my mother assured me that our involvement in this would be limited to the actual dressing of the models, with minor adjustments to the staging if needed, I prefer a hands-on approach when it comes to how my designs are presented.
I don’t spend too much time thinking about the control-freak comments I’ve heard growing up because if the shoe fits, I’ll wear it.
As the only girl and youngest child in my family, I knew what I wanted, and I consistently achieved it.
I know what I like and how I prefer things, and anyone who has a problem with that doesn’t stick around La Reine long.
With a sigh, I’m reminded that I need to hire a new second assistant.
Really, it’s not like the job is hard. I basically give them a schedule of tasks every week, and they just have to do them.
But Val brought me the wrong lunch three days in a row last week, and I don’t make the rules.
Three strikes and you’re out. I guess I do make the rules, technically, but still.
If I can’t trust you with my lunch order, I can’t trust you with my business.
As the car makes its way to the club from my apartment, not a far enough distance in my opinion, I feel…
tired. I mean, it’s early, and I shouldn’t be out of my apartment yet.
But still, it would be nice not to have to deal with all the fucking decisions about every aspect of my life, the designs, and the business every single day.
We pull up to the service entrance of the building and walk in through the back offices on the first floor. A delivery person is pushing a motorized cart full of boxes of condoms into a store room, and I smirk. That’s probably the real problem here. I need to get laid.
I’ve been staring in silence for ten minutes, trying to take in the stage area of the club and think of exactly how I’m going to fix this disaster.
Well, disaster might be a little unfair.
Anyone who isn’t an expert on women’s bodies, angles, and lighting might think this looks fine.
By average standards, this would exceed expectations.
But I’ve never been average, and I’m not going to compromise now.
“All of this lighting needs to be replaced. It’s too harsh, and the placement isn’t going to do any of our dates any favors.
It needs to be programmable, on a timer that can be paused and with the speed of the strobes adjusted manually, as I mentioned in the specs I sent weeks ago.
The draping in the back is fine, but the material needs to be something less shimmery.
Otherwise, it’s going to reflect like a nightmare.
I don’t know if you thought I wouldn’t notice, but these fans are the cheaper option that I specified not to use.
They’re loud and will be more noticeable in this space than the brand I requested.
Replace them.” I sigh, somewhat dramatically, because I was really not expecting to have to micro-fucking-manage every aspect of this.
The specification sheet had literally all of these details.
Fabrics, lighting, fans, placement, all of it.
There are very few things I hate more than repeating myself.
“Princess, I’m sorry we’re not up to your standards.”
I don’t have to turn around to know who’s behind me. And I might actually hate that nickname more than I hate repeating myself.
Sighing, I turn back around to try to be civil, but my patience has really been worn thin this morning by the incompetence of Jack’s team.
There’s the man himself, wearing tailored charcoal trousers with a pristine white shirt stretched across his wide chest, three buttons undone and still wearing the gold chain I never quite got a good look at years ago. Jack, you slut.
“Good morning, Mr. Carter. I’ve just informed your team of my notes regarding this draft of the staging.
I would usually dictate them and leave them with your stage manager, but it’s word for word what I sent weeks ago.
I recommend that your team start from scratch and follow the instructions I sent.
They’re very detailed. I can’t see why there would be any confusion,” I say, short and to the point.
Jack opens his mouth to speak, but a man standing next to him beats him to it.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Sinclair. I’m Aaron, Jack’s house manager.”
“A pleasure, Aaron. Are you about to tell me why my spec sheet was ignored?” I ask, very politely, very demure, taking deep breaths until ugh, too deep, I can smell Jack’s cologne.
Aaron cowers slightly under my scrutinizing gaze, and I’m reminded of the way Val looked at me just before I fired her.
Jesus, I’m not that threatening, and I’m not asking too much.
Just do your job per my very detailed directives.
Aaron squeaks out something faintly resembling “family emergency,” then scurries out of the room.
Jack turns to watch him go, then brings his gaze back to me, head cocked to the side.
“That was rude,” he says, still eyeing me with an unnerving amount of scrutiny.
“What’s rude is agreeing to collaborate with a business, committing to a certain level of service to ensure the expectations of the business are met, then ignoring a line-by-line page of instructions so simple an elementary school student could follow them.
It’s a waste of my time when I have other things I would rather be doing,” I reply, still calm, cool, and collected.
“Like Marco?” Jack asks, his gaze growing cool as he eyes my colleague, who’s still close to the stage, trying to explain the color coordination system in my notes to Jack’s employees. Can they not read?
“What about Marco?” I ask, forcing him to voice the accusation he’s trying to level at me. The fact that this man thinks he has any right to be jealous of Marco after shooing me away like a stray dog is, well. Just like a man, I suppose.
“You have other things you’d rather be doing, like Marco?” he asks, and I’m impressed he has the balls to double down.
“I would never mix business with pleasure, Mr. Carter. Marco is a beloved friend and colleague, and I rely on his opinions and those of his husband regularly.”
He has the decency to look a little sheepish, but he’s not getting away with being inappropriate in our fucking workplace like that without consequences.
“If, however, I did want to mix business with pleasure…” I pause for effect and dramatically look at where Marco stands—tall, lean, and with the style and grace of a born-and-raised Italian man.
I turn back to make eye contact with Jack.
“If I did want pleasure, he’s certainly the type of man I’ve been craving it from lately. ”
I walk to the side table where my coat and bag sit and begin suiting myself up to brave the New York weather and get on with the rest of my day. I’m not at all surprised to find Jack following me with clenched fists.
“He’s half Italian, half French, you know,” I say as I put on my gloves. “Individually, talented lovers, but the combination tends to be, well...” I meet his eyes once more and smirk when I see a vein in his forehead that might pop. “The combination is devastating.”
My work here is so done for the day, and I call Marco over to shake Jack’s tense hand and join me as we head across town to the promotional event. I’m sure Jack is seething, vein still pulsating. But I wouldn’t know because I don’t look back.
Marco, his husband Mark—they love it, and have a cute thing where they play Mark/Marco Polo when they can’t find each other in a crowd—and I are enjoying a late evening dinner and drinks after a highly successful event.
I don’t work out for nothing, and some of the first images from the afternoon show a chic woman with killer back muscles wearing tens of millions of dollars in diamonds and a smile.
It was the most fun I’ve had in a while, and I think the storefront and the jewelry store collaboration are both going to be perfect.
The Rendezvous Too Valentine’s Day auction, on the other hand, is giving me a headache and might end up being more trouble than it’s worth.
My face clearly shows my change in mood, and Mark, who isn’t my employee and has no qualms telling me exactly what he thinks, says, “When was the last time you got dicked down?”
Marco chokes on his martini and slaps his husband on the shoulder.
Mark puts his hands up placatingly. “I’m sorry, but tell me it isn’t true.
You moved, you’ve had a ton going on since you got to New York, and you’re vexed by this project.
You need a really good one-night stand. At least try to establish a regular rotation like you had in France. An American Michel.”
He’s not wrong. I had no shortage of partners in my two years overseas, although I was just starting to explore some of my less vanilla interests.
After our French film experience, Michel and I barely dabbled in some play, but he was so sensual in his daily life that passion was never something we needed any help with.
“You know, I know you wouldn’t be caught dead at Jack’s club as a patron.
But there is another club around here that we’ve been to.
They’re legit. Background checks, testing, the works.
They aren’t really competitors with Rendezvous Too because instead of theme nights and kink exhibitions, they facilitate more anonymous fantasies.
Glory holes and whatnot. Like a hookup app but with testing and safe rooms with panic buttons.
It’s really clean and nice,” Marco says, and I appreciate him for trying to help me out.
This sounds like it might be exactly what I need to break out of my funk.
Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky enough to find someone to be regular buddies with and be in a consistently better mood.
I certainly don’t need a fucking relationship right now.
“Text me the info, please,” I say, smiling.
“And I’ll see you at work tomorrow, Marco.
Don’t worry about your tab. Tonight’s on me for putting up with my attitude.
” I give them a wink and head outside to my waiting driver, heading home for a bath and contemplating what I might want out of an anonymous sex club encounter.
Join us on January 25, where we will be hosting an anonymous meetup. We know everyone will have varying preferences, so there will be a questionnaire to ensure everyone is comfortable. We can’t wait to see you soon.
That sounds like exactly what I need. After clicking through the sign-up, I submit my testing and then circle back to the preferences section. It’s comprehensive, and the club’s algorithm will match me with a partner based on complementary interests.
Thinking about what I really need, if I’m being honest with myself, is just a chance to let go a little bit.
I need a good, rough fuck by someone I never have to see again.
This is the perfect chance to try out new things in a safe, low-stakes environment, so I click a few of the things I’ve wanted to try but never have, and submit.
Adding the date to my calendar, I find myself excited at the prospect of an anonymous night of fun.
You deserve this, Margot. Finally home, I grab my vibe and head to the bath, thinking about a man with no face taking all my stress away.