Chapter 3
JENNA
By the time I make it home, I’m dragging. My heels are in my hand, my blouse half-untucked. My brain feels like it’s been deep-fried.
My apartment is small and a little cramped, but it’s mine.
Mid-century meets girl on a budget. Thrift store velvet throw pillows, string lights I never took down after Christmas, and an Ikea bookshelf I put together myself that leans ever so slightly to the left.
The sink’s full again. The laundry basket in the corner is begging to be emptied, and there’s a half-eaten donut still on a plate from… God, maybe Tuesday?
Whatever. I drop my shoes, collapse onto the couch, and sink into the cushions like the plug’s been pulled on me. I grope for the remote, not even caring what I watch as long as it’s something that doesn’t make me think.
I pull up Netflix, scrolling for a second before settling on Selling Sunset. It’s so aggressively stupid, it’s perfect. Nothing like watching women with sculpted jaws and weaponized cleavage argue about listing prices while I debate whether I have the energy to microwave leftovers.
It’s no use. I can’t focus. My brain keeps crawling back to him.
Abram Vasiliev.
My boss. My tyrant. My walking HR violation of a distraction.
He works nonstop—barely eats, barely sleeps—and expects his assistant to follow suit.
At his beck and call until he’s finished for the day, which could mean noon or three in the morning.
He’ll shoot off a message at 10:47 p.m. about an investor meeting the next day and expect a response in sixty seconds.
I’ve actually timed him. Sixty-one seconds and he’s texting me a question mark.
My circadian rhythm is a mess. Coffee has replaced the blood in my veins. I’ve forgotten what a normal weekend looks like. And yet…
I sit up straight, realizing my body isn’t tired at all. I’m buzzing. My legs won’t stay still. My brain keeps looping little flashes of his voice, his eyes, the look he gave me when I suggested the club wasn’t entirely legal. Like he wanted to devour me and fire me in the same breath.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I pick up my phone, thumb hovering over my messages. I need to talk to someone sane. Someone not brooding, bearded, and capable of killing a man with a paperweight.
Claire. My best friend. My lifeline. She always tells it straight, even when I don’t want to hear it.
I open our chat and start typing.
You home?
Just walked in. What’s up?
Wanna hang? Like, tonight? Now? I need wine.
GOD yes. I’ll be there in an hour.
I smile for the first time all day and toss my phone onto the couch. Claire and I have been best friends since freshman orientation at Arizona State, where she rescued me from an awkward icebreaker involving a trust fall and a very sweaty guy named Chad.
We were roommates all through college and again in our first dumpy apartment post-graduation until I moved into this place, my grown-up space, complete with central air and a dishwasher that actually works.
She landed a job at a marketing firm downtown that she likes well enough but says has “too many men named Josh.” Between her client meetings and my boss’s erratic schedule, we barely see each other anymore. But when we do, it’s still magic.
True to her word, she’s knocking on the door fifty-eight minutes later. I open it to find her grinning, a bottle of rosé in one hand and a bag of cheese popcorn in the other.
“Did someone order a girls’ night?” she says, breezing past me like a spring gust.
Claire’s one of those women who looks like she belongs in a magazine ad—tall, lean, sleek brown ponytail, perfectly winged eyeliner she claims takes two seconds.
I’ve never been skinny like her. I’m more soft curves and strategic outfits. Claire’s always made me feel like a walking ‘before’ picture, though she’d be furious if she knew that.
“Living room’s a disaster,” I warn, stepping over a pile of laundry.
She shrugs. “So are we.”
We pop the cork and pour modest glasses. Claire kicks off her heels and sinks into the couch like she owns it. “Alright, talk to me. You’re practically vibrating.”
“I think I’m sexually frustrated,” I mutter, sipping slowly, savoring the sweetness. “Like, dangerously.”
Claire snorts. “Finally. I’ve been waiting weeks for this confession. Tell me everything.”
I groan and bury my face in a pillow. “It’s Abram. My boss.”
“The Russian Bratva zaddy,” she gasps. “I knew it. You’re finally admitting it.”
“He’s not a zaddy,” I mumble, though the heat in my cheeks betrays me. “He’s a controlling, egotistical asshole who makes me want to throw a stapler at his face and at the same time ride him like a mechanical bull.”
Claire howls with laughter, nearly spilling her wine. “Girl, I have to see this man.”
“He’s not a man, he’s a tyrant.”
“Alright, so he’s a hot tyrant. But the job’s good, right?”
“Amazing pay,” I admit. “And I get full benefits. Plus, it’s not boring. When he calls me into his office, I never know if I’m walking into a scheduling emergency or a crime in progress.”
Claire lifts her glass. “To hot criminals and health insurance.”
We clink and drink.
Claire leans back on the couch. “So. Are you gonna show me a picture of this hot tyrant or what?”
I roll my eyes and take another drink. “Nope.”
“No?”
“I’m not feeding your fantasies.”
Claire grins. “Oh, so he’s seriously hot.”
“I’m not doing this.” I stand, grabbing my phone. “Wanna go out? Catch a buzz? Make some bad decisions?”
Claire blinks, then tilts her head. “Wasn’t expecting a bait-and-switch. But yes, obviously.”
“How about Junebug’s?” I offer. It’s a dive bar on East Fremont with sticky floors and strong drinks.
She makes a face. “Mmm, tempting. But since we never get to hang out anymore, I vote we mix it up.”
I hesitate. “Like how?”
She drums her fingers on her glass. “Like, let’s do something we haven’t done since we were fresh out of college and thought Vegas was our playground.” She jumps to her feet. “Let’s go dancing!”
I blink. “Like, real dancing? Music? Sweaty strangers?”
“Maybe even some making out in a dark corner.”
I laugh. “Fine. Let’s find a place.”
I grab my laptop and set it on the coffee table.
Claire plops beside me, pulling her knees up and balancing her glass on one thigh like it’s a skill she’s trained for.
I pull up a few club sites—Velvet Room, The Underground, Haze.
She scrolls with a distracted hum before stopping abruptly.
Her eyes light up, her mouth curving in a way that sets off a mild alarm in my chest.
“Oh no,” I say. “I know that look. That’s your bad idea face.”
Claire’s smile spreads. “Jenna. Darling. I have the perfect idea.”
I sip cautiously. “Is it legal?”
“Define legal.” She angles the screen towards me.
The site is dark—literally. A deep obsidian background with red-velvet accents, moody lighting, and looping video of bodies writhing in silhouette.
The header reads: The 13th Floor.
Beneath it, a tagline: Your desires. Your rules.
There’s a form for requesting access. A section called “Dress Code and Decorum” with words like consensual voyeurism and performance room etiquette. Tabs labeled “Theme Nights” and “Private Chambers.” The whole thing feels like someone designed a nightclub inside a very well-funded porn studio.
My lips thin.
Claire grins. “So?”
“So?”
She nudges me. “Don’t you dare act like you’re not curious.”
“I’m…” I trail off. “Okay, yeah, I am. But Claire, Abram is planning on buying a sex club.” God, the words still feel weird to say. “What if this one is it?”
She raises a brow. “And wouldn’t that be a story.”
“That would be a disaster.”
She holds up her glass. “Or fate.”
I stare at the screen again, my pulse ticking up like I’ve had more wine than I actually have. The video loops back to a couple in a velvet chair, half-clothed and very into each other. My skin tingles with heat.
I think of Abram. And suddenly, I don’t feel so tipsy anymore. Just alive.
I narrow my eyes at the screen, suspicious. “This isn’t a brothel, right?”
Claire snorts into her wine. “No, babe. It’s a club. There’s sex, sure, but nobody’s getting paid. No hookers, no johns, just people having fun.”
I eye her sideways. “You’ve been?”
She hesitates for half a second too long, then nods slowly. “Yeah.”
“What? When?”
She shrugs, swirling her wine like this is just casual, every day talk. “Last year. I went with Marcus.”
Marcus. Her ex with the tattoos and the motorcycle and emotionally unavailable.
“What the hell, Claire? Why didn’t you tell me?”
She grins, biting her lip. “Didn’t know if you’d be cool with it.”
I laugh. “You must think I am, since you’re inviting me to go now.”
She gives me that wicked grin again. “You are. You just don’t know it yet.”
I give her a skeptical look. “And what exactly did you do at the 13th Floor?”
“Oh, not much,” she says casually. “Watched a couple go at it in a candlelit room. Got tied up. Had sex in a mirror-lined hallway with Marcus while a few people watched.”
I choke on my wine. “Claire!”
“What?” She shrugs again. “It was hot. No pressure. Marcus never looked at me the same after. In a good way.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
She nudges me with her shoulder. “And you’re curious.”
I have to admit I am. I mean, I’ve had lovers. A few one-night stands. But I’ve never gone looking for sex like it’s an experience to chase down. Never walked into a building with the intent of getting laid. It’s different. Intoxicating.
“I don’t know,” I murmur. “What if it’s not safe?”
“It is,” she says, suddenly serious. “Bouncers are everywhere. No one touches you without permission. You can leave at any time. You can do nothing and just watch. It’s totally your call.”
I stare at the screen again, biting my lip in indecision.
Claire puts her hand on mine. “There’s zero pressure, Jen. I promise. We can be wallflowers. We can flirt. Or we can just drink overpriced cocktails and mock creepy guys in velvet blazers. But you need something. Something different.”
She’s not wrong.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
Claire beams. “Yes!”
“What do we wear to a sex club?”
She grins. “Masks.”
We stop at a boutique tucked just off Fremont Street, one of those artsy little shops where every piece feels like it belongs to a different fantasy.
The walls are lined with velvet capes, leather chokers, and masks—so many masks.
Feathers. Lace. Glitter. Leather. A masquerade of secrets waiting to be worn.
Claire makes a beeline for a sleek silver number, filigree swirls curling up over her brow like wings. It clings to her face in delicate lines, cool and sharp, just like her. “This one’s mine,” she declares, holding it up. “Total femme fatale shit.”
I wander around, fingers drifting past rows of black lace and crimson velvet, until one catches my eye.
It’s navy blue, the same shade as the night sky just before it swallows the sun.
Midnight threaded with silver. The edges flare out into tiny horns—subtle, but mischievous.
It’s soft to the touch but holds its shape like something made to be worn boldly.
“This,” I say quietly, lifting it to my face. “This feels right.”
Claire eyes it, then grins. “Mysterious.”
We pay and head back to my apartment. The mood has shifted.
In the mirror, I pull on my dress—a fitted black number I’ve never worn before. Not clingy, exactly, but it hugs me in places that make me feel a little shy. And a little thrilled. The kind of dress that demands attention. The kind of dress I bought thinking maybe someday.
Apparently, someday is now.
I slip on the mask last. The horns catch the light. The navy brings out the warmth in my eyes.
Claire whistles low. “Damn, Jenna.”
I turn toward the mirror again, hardly recognizing the woman staring back. Sexy. Confident. A little dangerous.
I grin.
Anything could happen tonight.
And that’s exactly what I want.