Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Brie
The nondescript entrance in the Meatpacking District isn’t what I expect from a seven-figure initiation fee. Black plaque, black brick, black door—understated lure by design. Adrien keys a code; the door glides. The doorman’s in black-on-black, the kind of muscle that doesn’t advertise.
“And her phone?” he asks.
“She’s with me,” Adrien says, and the rule evaporates.
Policy overridden in three words.
Inside, marble and gold wash the room in luxury. Windowless, clockless—this place pretends it’s always midnight, and everyone looks better by design. Corners hold smoked domes and pin-lens glass. Mostly hidden—just visible enough to remind you that you’re seen.
Exits: three. Choke points: two. Blind zones: none apparent.
The motion door sighs open to an intimate bar dressed in velvet and bathed in low light.
“This is the restaurant?”
“This is one of the bars. It offers a casual dining experience or a place to venture for dessert and after-dinner drinks. The New York club has four bars and lounges, one restaurant with a Michelin star chef, a spa, and suites.”
“Suites,” I repeat when he lists the offerings, hearing the part he doesn’t say: curated boundaries and privacy. “How did you get into this business?”
In Monaco, he’d taken me away on his yacht after a vicious fight with his father, who insisted he needed to be the one to take over the family business.
Adrien had countered that his sister was more suited, and deserving, and I’d admired his progressive stance.
That weekend had been a big fashion event, important for their business, and he absconded on the family’s yacht to allow his sister to prove to their father she could handle it all.
I’d stumbled on him at the bar after he’d downed a shot, licking his wounds from his father’s verbal lashing.
Three weeks later the company announced Margot d’Avricourt would succeed her father as CEO, so I assumed his plan succeeded.
The article made no mention of Adrien, but it had been a 150-word announcement buried pages deep in The London Times that only those with stock in d’Avricourt Luxe might have registered.
“I studied the fundamentals.” His chin lifts, arms to his side, defensive?
No, prideful. “Lifestyle made the most sense for an Avricourt Luxe brand extension. We sell clothes, handbags, jewelry, and fragrance in the high-end, luxury market. The high-value segment—clients who spend over fifty thousand a year, have more they could spend, but it’s not just about claiming a larger share of their expenditures.
It’s about understanding this customer in a way we can’t from market studies. ”
Fantasy sells. Reality invoices later. “Aren’t these customers your friends and family?”
“A small sample size never provides the insight one needs.”
“And a sex club is—”
“Where’d you get the idea that The Sanctuary is a sex club?
” Tension threads his response, likely because we’ve been over this, but I can’t shake my perception.
“We’re an exclusive social community, an unforgettable spa, and a travel experience with private events around the world.
Desire is profitable. Intimacy isn’t. We offer discreet, safe locations for a variety of activities, all in compliance with regional laws.
If you’re envisioning strippers and lap dances, that’s not us. ”
“Unless it happens in a private suite? Or event?”
“Precisely.”
“So you’re telling me that The Sanctuary is market research?”
His lips curve into a composed smile, no, into a conceited smirk. “The businesses complement each other.”
I recall the models that attended the event in Monaco, the women outnumbering the men by three to one easily. It had been chance that I’d caught his eye as I moved through the party, uninvited, hoping I evaded the Russian intelligence officer tracking me. “The models—are they paid to attend?”
The thin smile drops with a tsk. “They’re contracted for events; consent is explicit and monitored. We don’t employ sex workers in jurisdictions where it’s illegal, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Explicit consent is good. Power imbalance is better for predators. File under: watch.
“Our members may bring guests, but those guests are not contracted with our organization. And the models, yes, that’s an area where the brand extension makes sense.
As you know, the world of modeling is highly competitive.
Few succeed and even fewer make enough to live off.
The number of models who jump at the chance to attend events with wealthy, available individuals is great.
What happens at our events is always consensual and we keep a watchful eye to ensure the safety of all attendees. ”
“I’m certain women are safe in your hands.”
“Open your mind, Brie.” I raise a pointed eyebrow, and his lips quirk. “Male models attend too. We’re equal opportunity in our hedonism.”
“Models,” I repeat. “Only the lovely,” I say, reciting the fragrance ad I once saw in an airport lounge in Paris.
“Words to live by,” he says as a back door behind the bar opens, and a young woman dressed in a cleavage revealing black halter top enters with a crate of glasses in her arms. She glances our way but busies herself unloading the crate.
“The bar opens in thirty minutes,” Adrien says. “Shall I show you the restaurant? We have quite the business breakfast scene. It’s a relief for many to meet without public scrutiny and questions.”
“Ah, so not as many models in attendance at breakfast?”
“Would it be out of line to mention that you’re making my hand twitch?”
Another door opens from the back right, alleviating the need to answer his question, a small grace, given the implication heated my skin and the memory flash of his palm on my ass with me on my knees sent heat spiraling low in my body.
“There you are.” The man addressing Adrien is dressed in the same all-black uniform as the man at the door, so I assume he’s an employee. “How’d your meeting go?” He doesn’t look at Adrien when he asks; he watches me.
The man is slightly shorter than me, thinning dark hair, with an outmoded thin mustache reminiscent of Clark Gable, but for all I know, the dated style is trending.
“It went well. I believe I’ll be satisfied with the renovation.” I cut my gaze to Adrien, and he adds for my benefit, “I’m renovating a bathroom in my penthouse. Eddie Thorne, this is an old friend of mine, Brie Anderson. I’m showing her around.”
Recalculation clicks behind his eyes. “Ah. If you need membership services Tiffany will arrive—”
“She’s with me,” Adrien says, cutting him off as if he doesn’t want Eddie to finish whatever welcome pitch he might be about to give.
“Eddie is the managing director of the New York and Miami locations. He’s been with The Sanctuary since its founding and is instrumental in ensuring it runs smoothly and every guest is cared for. ”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, wondering how unusual it is for Adrien to bring a woman with him to the club.
If he does this all the time, then we won’t pique any employee’s interest. If it’s a rare occurrence, or if he typically selects from the latest models, then that could explain Eddie’s interest in me.
“Ah, the specials changed on the menu for this weekend. Do you have a minute to review? We also needed to make some adaptations to Saturday’s event.”
“Certainly,” Adrien answers and Eddie hesitates, pointedly looking at me.
“Go ahead. I’ll be fine waiting here.”
Eddie looks at the bartender who is now taking plastic wrap off of cherries and fruit slices. “Serene, please give Ms. Anderson anything she wants, anything at all.”
Adrien hesitates, and I reassure him. “I’ll be fine.”
The two men exit through the same dark backdoor Eddie entered from, and I take a seat at the bar.
In a bright, upbeat voice, Serene asks, “What can I get you?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
She proceeds with her work, her movements quick, while I check my phone.
Noah Bennett
You good?
I don’t type a reply. I don’t type anything inside a building I haven’t swept. Even if Adrien thinks the system is closed loop, signals bleed. He should be in transit anyway, as we’re off this weekend.
Noah’s inquisitive, because he’s perceptive, and he read my reactions in the meeting earlier today.
When I call him, I’ll explain. But how will I explain what I’m doing here now?
I can’t turn on the lights and examine the security system.
It won’t be believable to any employee that Adrien is giving an unfettered tour of the premises to his lady friend.
I’ve given him my explanation, and he’s given me his, and on Monday I’ll work with the team to determine if he has an employee selling secrets or if we’re dealing with a clever hacker.
He says his security system is closed loop, and perhaps he believes it is, but do I?
No, because I guarantee you he’s wired to reach emergency services, and if there’s a way out, there’s a way in.
Unlike the men, Serene’s provocative outfit fits like a tasteful glove, highlighting her curves in a satin-like shimmer. The crystal catches the light, refracting rainbows across the bar top, and suddenly I’m back on his yacht, champagne flutes dry as the sun rises over the Mediterranean.
The horizon had started to blush with the faintest hint of dawn, painting the sky in watercolor pastels. We’d talked through the entire night, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this present in a moment.
“The sun’s coming up,” I murmured, suddenly aware that daylight meant consequences, meant returning to shore, meant the end of this borrowed pause.
“I see it.” But he wasn’t looking at the sunrise. His gaze remained fixed on my face, studying me like I was art worthy of memorization. “Sophia…”
“Sophie,” I corrected automatically, then caught myself. Even my cover name felt like a lie between us and I didn’t want it there, but such was life.
“Sophie,” he repeated, sounding it like a question. His hand came up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing across my bottom lip with reverent softness. “I don’t want this night to end.”
Neither did I. That was the precarious truth of it—for the first time in years, I didn’t want to return to my real life. I wanted to stay suspended in this moment, on this yacht, with this man who saw past all my careful constructs to something I’d forgotten existed.
“It has to,” I whispered, but I didn’t pull away from his touch.
“Does it?”
The first rays of sun gilded his skin, and for a moment I couldn’t tell if the heat came from the light or from him.
When he leaned forward, I met him halfway.
I should have pulled back, but something about the way he said my name felt real, and I wanted real more than I wanted safe.
His kiss was nothing like the practiced seduction I’d expected from a wealthy playboy. It was tentative at first, questioning, waiting for my permission.
He kissed me like a man testing a theory—and proved it true.
When I gave in—hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer—he responded with a hunger that matched my own.
He kissed like a man with years of practice, but he treated me like I was a precious gem, perhaps the first he’d ever valued.
Heat pooled low in my belly, my body recognizing something my mind wasn’t ready to name.
When we finally broke apart, the sun had fully risen, casting diamonds across the water. The spell should have been broken by daylight, but it only felt stronger, more real.
“Stay with me for the weekend,” he said, forehead resting against mine. “Come with me to my bedroom. Let’s rest. Wake. Have breakfast at sea. If you don’t have to go back, let’s not.”
I should have said no. Every instinct I’d honed directed me to end this now, to say I had to return to shore, that work called.
But when I looked into his eyes—those eyes, more green and gold than blue in the daylight, that had listened to my truths without judgment but also shared unexpected common ground—I found myself nodding.
The word that would change everything hovered on my lips.
“Yes,” I whispered, and meant it completely.
He kissed me, and the woman who never broke cover vanished beneath the rising sun.
“Brie?” Adrien pulls me from the memory.
He’s carrying a leather portfolio—the only nod to work—while his eyes glint with interest, and I’m the thing catching it.
For a disorienting heartbeat, I’m still on that yacht, still tasting sunrise and bad decisions.
Then reality snaps back: the bar, the club, the professional distance I should never have let slip in the first place.
“Sorry about that.” He slides onto the barstool beside me, while discreetly dropping a USB drive in my bag, which I can only assume contains the employee records we asked for. He’s close enough that I catch his cologne—expensive, subtle—undesirably familiar. “Now, where were we?”
“We were finishing up.” I stand, needing distance. “This has been educational, but I should head back.”
“Educational?” he repeats, amused disbelief softening the edge. “That’s the most clinical description of The Sanctuary I’ve ever heard.”
Around us, the club is coming to life. Staff members move in and out of the bar area with practiced efficiency, preparing for the lunch and afternoon crowd, a group I can only imagine includes young, beautiful, pampered souls along with powerful benefactors who belong in this rarefied world of unlimited expense accounts and designer everything.
“The club is exactly what I expected,” I lie, because the truth—that it’s more elegant, more seductive, more everything than I imagined—isn’t something I care to admit.
“Have dinner with me.” The invitation is simple, direct. “Not here, somewhere else. Anywhere you want.”
The offer is tempting, but dinner would be pointless. Mixing roles blurs lines. Blurred lines get people killed or compromised. I’ve done both. “I can’t. I have plans.”
“What plans?”
“Personal ones.” I head for the exit, not trusting myself to stay longer. “I’ll see you Monday.” I’d like to remind him that on Monday we’ll be doing the security assessment, just to drive home the reason I’m here, but I refrain from doing so as Serene is within earshot.
“Brie, wait—”
But I’m already walking away, leaving him in his curated midnight—beautiful people, beautiful things, beauty on retainer.
It’s a world I can infiltrate on assignment, but it isn’t a life.
Even if I could belong here, surrounded by his world of engineered beauty and careful desire, I’d never want to stay.