Chapter 15 Lia
LIA
Itoss my phone on the bed and stare at the ceiling of my apartment, restless energy coursing through me.
It's been a week since my run-in with Vane, and I've thrown myself into gallery preparations to avoid thinking about him.
But nights are the hardest. That's when my body betrays me, when memories surface of things I've left behind in New York.
Not just the excitement of the art scene. I miss The Red Room.
For five years, that exclusive BDSM club was my sanctuary. A place where I could surrender control in a way I never allowed myself elsewhere—except on prom night. My Doms there—particularly Charles and Everett—knew exactly how to push me to my limits while keeping me safe.
I roll over and grab my phone again, rereading the email I received this morning.
Ms. Morgan, your application for membership at Purgatory has been received. Please attend an interview this evening at 9 PM. The doorman will be expecting you.
Purgatory. The most exclusive sex club in Ravenwood. Now that I'm back, it was the first thing I researched when the nights got too long and my fingers wandered beneath the sheets without satisfaction.
What the research didn't tell me—what I discovered only after submitting my application—was who owned it.
The Blackwood Brothers.
My stomach tightens at the thought of running into Vane there. The club supposedly has two sections. There’s the main floor that operates like any high-end nightclub, and a separate area that is a high-end BDSM club.
Is it worth the risk? Part of me wants to cancel. But another part—the part that's been lying awake at night, fingers working desperately between my thighs with diminishing returns—knows I need this. I need the release that only comes from submitting to someone else's control.
I could find another club in a nearby city. Drive an hour or two for satisfaction. But something about Purgatory pulls at me, despite—or perhaps because of—the danger of crossing paths with Vane again.
I check the time. Two hours until my interview. Just enough time to prepare myself for whatever—or whoever—awaits me there.
I stand under the hot shower spray, letting the water cascade down my body as I contemplate the evening ahead. Steam fills the bathroom as I wash my hair thoroughly, massaging my scalp with expensive shampoo that smells of jasmine.
My razor glides across my legs first, then underarms, and finally the delicate area between my thighs. I've always preferred being completely bare there—a preference that started years ago in New York when I first ventured into The Red Room. Nothing should get in the way of sensation.
After stepping out of the shower, I pat myself dry and apply scented lotion, taking my time to moisturize every inch of skin. My fingers linger over the soft curve of my inner thighs, and I catch myself wondering if someone else's hands will touch me there tonight.
“Focus, Lia,” I mutter to myself, moving to my vanity.
I apply my makeup with careful attention—dramatic cat-eye liner, mascara that makes my lashes impossibly long, and deep red lipstick that makes my mouth look like a sin waiting to happen. My hair is left down, with dark waves falling past my shoulders.
In my closet, I select a dress I haven't worn since I was in New York.
Black, form-fitting, with a neckline that plunges just enough to be provocative without looking desperate.
The hemline stops mid-thigh, and the back dips low, revealing most of my spine.
I step into black stilettos that make my legs look endless and add a simple gold choker around my neck.
No underwear. Another habit from my time at The Red Room.
I check my appearance one last time, grab a small clutch with just the essentials, and open the Uber app on my phone. The car arrives in six minutes.
During the ride, I stare out the window at the passing lights of Ravenwood, my heart beating faster as we approach our destination. The driver pulls up to the club.
“Purgatory,” he announces, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
I thank him, step out of the car, and approach the imposing entrance of Purgatory, my heels clicking against the pavement.
The building is nondescript from the outside—no flashy signs, just a sleek black door with a burly doorman standing guard.
This is clearly a place you only find if you know what you're looking for.
The doorman's eyes sweep over me slowly, taking in every detail from my stilettos to my carefully styled hair. His expression remains professionally blank, but there's an assessment happening that I recognize from my years in New York. He's determining whether I belong.
“I'm Lia Morgan,” I say with quiet confidence. “I have an interview at nine.”
He nods once, not bothering to check any list. “Follow me, Ms. Morgan.”
Instead of opening the main entrance where I can hear the faint thrum of music, he gestures to a discreet side door I hadn't noticed.
He holds it open, and I step inside, finding myself in a dimly lit hallway decorated in rich burgundy tones.
The air smells faintly of expensive cologne, with an undercurrent of cigar smoke.
“Office on the left,” the doorman instructs. “They're expecting you.”
I nod my thanks and walk down the hallway, my confidence wavering with each step. The door to the office is heavy, dark wood with no markings. I take a deep breath, smooth down my dress, and turn the handle.
As I step inside, my body freezes. The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
Vane Blackwood sits behind a large desk, looking perfectly at home in an expensive suit, his fingers steepled in front of him. His green eyes lock with mine, and his lips curve into a smug smile that makes my skin flush hot.
“Hello, wildflower,” he says, his voice deeper than I remember. “I've been looking forward to your interview.”
For a moment, I consider turning and running.
My fight-or-flight instinct screams at me to flee, to get as far away from Vane Blackwood as possible.
But I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me retreat.
I've spent fifteen years building myself into someone stronger than the girl who ran away.
I step fully into the office, deliberately closing the door behind me. With measured movements, I cross my arms over my chest. “I'd like someone else to conduct my interview,” I say, proud of how steady my voice sounds despite the riot of emotions coming to life within.
Vane leans back in his chair, his smile widening to reveal perfectly straight white teeth. “Afraid I'll learn all your dirty little secrets, wildflower?”
“Don't call me that,” I snap. “And my concern is your obvious bias. I doubt you can be objective.”
He stands, and I'm struck by how much more imposing he is now. Vane has filled out—his broad shoulders stretching the tailored dress shirt, his strong, inked forearms revealed as he rolls up his sleeves.
“You think I can't be professional?” His voice drops lower. “Or are you scared to tell me exactly what you like?” He walks around the desk. “Worried I'll discover you're still not over me?”
“You're delusional,” I retort. “I've had fifteen years of experiences you know nothing about.”
“Then prove it.” He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his woodsy cologne. “Tell me exactly what you're looking for at Purgatory.”
His proximity is overwhelming. Where he once had one solitary tattoo, it’s clear he’s covered in ink now, designs peeking from beneath his collar, crawling up his neck, and even decorating the backs of his hands. One word in particular catches my eye—Envy inked across his knuckles.
“You're in my space,” I say, but don't step back.
He doesn't move. “Answer the question. What do you want from this club?”
His tone shifts, becoming commanding in a way that makes a swarm of butterflies take flight in my stomach. He's not asking anymore—he's demanding. And god help me, it's working.
“I was a submissive at The Red Room in New York,” I say, lifting my chin. “For five years, I surrendered control to skilled Dominants who knew exactly what they were doing.”
Vane's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but I catch it.
“I had several regulars—Charles, who specialized in rope work, and Everett, whose specialty was sensory play. I went a few times a week, sometimes more when work stress demanded it.” I allow a small smile to play on my lips. “It became quite the education.”
Something dangerous flashes in Vane's eyes—jealousy, raw and unfiltered. His nostrils flare as he processes the information that others have touched me, controlled me.
In one fluid movement, he closes the distance between us, his hand sliding around my waist to pull me against him. The sudden contact sends electricity through my body, an unwelcome reminder of the chemistry that's always simmered between us.
“So that's why you ran away to New York?” His voice is low, almost a growl. “To find a Dom when you had one right here that you ran from?”
The audacity of his statement startles a laugh out of me. I place my palms against his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his expensive shirt.
“You?” I shake my head. “You're not a Dom, Vane. You're just a boy who likes control.”
The muscles in his jaw jump as he clenches his teeth. The hand at my waist tightens, fingers digging into the fabric of my dress. His piercing green eyes, which have haunted me, narrow dangerously.
“You have no idea what I am now,” he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that makes my skin prickle.
The anger radiating from him is palpable, a living thing between us. I can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against my palms.
“Let's get back to your interview, shall we?” Vane releases me suddenly, stepping back. His eyes never leave mine as he gestures to a leather chair opposite his desk. “Please, sit.”