Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Adrien
All afternoon I pretended to focus on business—the phone beside me like an unanswered question I didn’t dare touch.
The marketing meeting dragged—another circular debate about Halloween themes.
At The Sanctuary, fantasy sells itself. I should’ve stayed away; watching people package desire was too on-the-nose today.
Rhonda lobbied for masquerade, Boyton for “fantasy-forward.” We host masquerades twice a month—hardly innovation. Common sense should’ve prevailed without me.
I push open my office door—annoyed that “soon” became an hour—and stop short. Tommy’s sprawled across the sofa, coat and briefcase claiming half of it, highball glass in hand, amber light catching the ice.
I make a show of checking my wrist. “Half-day for judges?”
“Case settled early. I’m clear for the day. Just came from The Crescendo—six models at the bar from a catalog shoot.”
His mention of models sends my hand to my phone. No missed calls. No text. Just silence dressed in glass and light.
“What am I saying—you’re burned out on models. Hudson Yards?”
“I burned out on performance,” I say with a defensive edge. “Everyone chasing the same illusion.”
He arches a brow, waiting for more, but I leave it there. The Sanctuary attracts people who use beauty as currency. Once, I traded in it freely. Now there’s only one woman I want to know beyond the surface.
Beautiful young women and men are desperate for invites to The Sanctuary—all with the hope of landing a relationship that will pay the bills.
If the young guests only wished to party, they’d head to a cracking club.
No, when they saunter in, knowing full well they can’t be photographed, to parties that won’t make the papers, they’re coming here in the hopes of making a connection—one that ranks as lucrative.
A trade of sorts in a circular world where there’s no such thing as enough.
“Tired?” He laughs. “You—the curator of scandal?”
I give him a look. When I bought The Sanctuary it thrived on spectacle, not solace, and I’ve spent years changing that. Sex sells, but power and privacy keep them returning. A true sanctuary offers both—pleasure and silence.
“Something’s off,” Tommy says, tipping his glass at me. “That woman—she ghost again?”
“You’re imagining things.”
“I’m a judge, not a fool. It’s that woman. Monaco.”
My jaw tightens. She’s not just a woman. But why argue? He might be right. Maybe she wants to ghost me.
Last night was…complicated. If she weren’t tied to my project, I might never see her again. She’s not responding to my texts. She hasn’t called.
“She’s in Manhattan,” I remind him—and myself.
I move behind my desk, pulling up the trend report I owe Margot—brands, colors, silhouettes our patrons favor. Macon compiles the footage; I translate it into marketing notes. The wealthiest clientele in the world leave data in the cut of a jacket, the choices for a wrist.
“And you’ve seen her.”
I sink into my chair and let the question hang unanswered.
“But it didn’t go well,” he presses.
I rub the bridge of my nose. Talking about Brie is out of the question—and I can’t tell him the details of what’s happening with Eddie—so I deflect. “You’ve had too much free time since making the bench.”
“I don’t,” he says, rightfully defensive. “But I worry about you—and I’ve learned to take breaks when I can. Law firm habit.”
“Why the sudden concern?”
“Truthfully, it’s Margot.” His drink sloshes as he gestures. “When she and I talk, I start to understand why she worries.”
“Since when are you and my sister confidants?”
My phone lights up, and my gaze falls to the screen lying on my desk. Fucking finally.
“I need to take this,” I tell him, nodding toward the door.
“Since when…” He pauses mid-sentence, then grins as realization dawns. “Fine, fine. Call me later.” He wanders out, drink in hand—headed, no doubt, back to the models at the bar.
“Hi,” I answer, gaze focused on the office door, waiting for it to close.
“Hey.” Her voice is soft, intimate—threaded with caution. Maybe she’s not alone.
The door clicks closed and I lean forward, resting an elbow on the desk, hesitant to set the phone down and set it to speaker.
“Busy day?”
“Yes. Your guy’s afternoon meeting paid off. He met with a woman tied to MI5.”
“British?”
“Irish. And when I say connections, I mean verified—observed.”
“Hmm.”
“One of her links traces to someone we’ll call a White House insider.”
“Interesting. You think she’s the one running it?”
“No. She’s a well-connected go-between for something lucrative. We’re sussing it out, but…”
“It doesn’t sound like this has to do with my properties.”
“Your man’s positioned himself as a source for a very powerful group.”
“Meaning?”
“It means you stay quiet. Not a word—until we know who we’re dealing with.”
“You sound like you’ve forgotten what’s at stake for me.”
“I haven’t,” she says. “But your friend drops by often.”
Ah, hell. They’re watching. I’d forgotten.
“He knows nothing.”
“Good.”
“Dinner tonight?”
“Dinner—or cocktails.”
My body reacts before my mind can school it. “Name the time and place. I’ll make it happen.”
“Your club,” she says. “I want to see your guy in action.”
“Text when you’re close. I’ll meet you at the door.”
Two hours later, I wait outside the nondescript black door of The Sanctuary, scanning the street.
A black sedan eases to the curb, and Brie steps out onto the cobblestone—golden hair perfectly coiffed, satin-gray wrap dress catching the city’s light, silver heels glinting like dropped stars.
Her coat, the same shade, fits like it was made for her.
A modern siren stepped out of shadow. Every head inside will turn.
I greet her with a kiss to the cheek, my voice low. “You’re stunning.”
Her smile is soft but knowing—the kind that unspools restraint, thread by thread. I close the car door as if sealing a spell, and the sedan pulls away from the curb.
We pass security, check-in, and I rest my hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward the bar.
The air is layered with perfume, aged whiskey, and polished leather—the sensory shorthand of temptation. Recessed lights carve pockets of intimacy. Crystal catches the light like scattered diamonds. She takes it all in, and I wonder what she thinks of this haven I’ve created.
Tommy’s here, mid-conversation with two women in dresses short enough to discourage sitting. Surrounded by fleeting company yet he spends his off-hours talking to my sister. Life’s strange that way.
The bar hums with understated luxury—amber light glinting off crystal, jewelry chiming softly beneath a seductive beat.
I guide Brie to a corner booth where shadows pool like velvet, a vantage point with just enough privacy to watch the room.
The faint drift of cigar smoke tells me someone’s slipped from the lounge recently.
“Drink?” I ask as the cocktail waitress approaches.
“Something light,” Brie says, sliding into the curve of the booth.
Minutes later, cocktails ordered, I’m settled beside her. The leather sighs beneath us; heat from her thigh seeps into mine, grounding me more than any drink could.
“Eventful day?” I ask, voice low.
“Let’s not talk here. At least, not about my workday.
” She looks at me with sultry lashes, and god I want the heat in her gaze to be for me, but I’m sharp enough to pick up that she’s playing along in case someone else is listening.
Because, after all, her theory is that conversations are being recorded and information sold.
I pause, uncertain what’s safe to ask. Work’s off-limits, and if she’s right about surveillance, even small talk could be ammunition.
Our cocktails arrive, and the scent of citrus and smoked hickory curls between us.
When the cocktail waitress leaves us, as if on cue, Eddie materializes beside our table with the practiced stealth of someone who makes a living from being exactly where conversations happen.
His smile is warm, professional, but I catch the calculating flicker in his eyes as they assess Brie.
“Eddie,” I say, friendly enough to fool a stranger. “You remember Brie.” I stop before her surname; no need to hand him a dossier.
“Nice to see you again,” he says with easy confidence, settling into his favorite posture—close enough to listen, casual enough to seem harmless.
Chatting with members is part of his job, and he’s good at it.
He knows everyone, and he’s intrigued because I’ve appeared with Brie twice and she hasn’t entered through any of his channels.
She’s not someone who came in through our rising stars program—the one that scholarships beautiful twenty-somethings into the club. “Where are you from?”
Brie hesitates. Eddie fills the silence. “France, like this one?” he teases.
“We met abroad,” she says smoothly. “But I live here in Manhattan.”
“If I’m lucky, you’ll see more of her around,” I say, meaning it. My gaze stays on Eddie’s reaction.
“Didn’t think I’d see the day,” Eddie says with an affable grin. “You must be something special. He doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.”
Candlelight gilds her skin, her smile small but real.
“Thank you…I think.” Her eyes meet mine, blue and briefly unguarded. The room dissolves into chiaroscuro.
“I’ll leave you two to it.” Eddie pivots after one step, “Will you dine here or would you like your table in the restaurant?”
“Here’s fine,” I say. “Thanks, Eddie.”
“Friendly,” Brie observes, the word edged with irony.
“Good at his job,” I say. What neither of us adds: he can’t be trusted.
“Should we go to the restaurant? What do you normally do when you bring your dates here?”
I don’t bring dates here, if anything I meet dates here, much like Tommy just met his dates.
Across the bar, Tommy lifts his chin in greeting. One small shake of my head and he understands—don’t bring them over. He toasts me anyway, and I turn back to Brie.