Chapter 7
T wo weeks.
Two fucking weeks of putting out fires and breaking necks to keep everything running smoothly.
You’d think by now, with the systems I have in place—the rules, the structure, the people trained to handle everything—I could take a goddamn breath without the world lighting itself on fire.
Apparently not.
The first week was simple enough. One of our Paris clients got caught getting handsy with a Companion in public. I sent him a warning. He thought that meant I was bluffing. He doesn’t think that anymore.
The second week? That’s when the real shit hit the fan.
A client went rogue. Not just boundary-pushing. Not just breaking a contract.
He kidnapped one of my girls.
Used her as a human shield while trying to escape some debt he owed.
He was able to hide for three days before I tracked him down.
My girl’s safe. He’s not breathing anymore.
I made sure of that.
Because no one touches what’s mine.
And every woman under my protection—every contract, every Companion—is mine .
So now I’m back.
Back in the city. Back in control.
Back to my empire .
The Black Ledger is where it belongs—at the center of power. Silent. Discreet. Unshakable.
And last night, I needed a release. An outlet.
I needed the rush. The surrender. The kind of night that wrings the tension out of your bones and leaves you drunk on control.
The Devil walked the halls of the Masquerade and found plenty to play with.
And it should’ve worked.
It always does.
Except last night, it didn’t.
Not the way it usually does.
I knew a new batch of recruits was set to begin orientation. I make a point to introduce myself, at least once. A presence check. It matters.
But I didn’t.
Two weeks of back-to-back fires—violent, bloody, reputation-shaking messes—kept my attention off the books and squarely on the men trying to bleed me dry.
Eve can handle the orientation. I trust her with everything. But The Ledger isn’t just a business. It’s not some faceless corporation.
It’s my empire. My name. My legacy.
Everyone in it is family. Everyone in it is mine to protect.
Apparently that now includes her .
The woman from the rooftop party.
I gave her a card. I don’t usually do that. In fact, I haven’t done it in years. It was a rash decision, one I made before I had time to think better of it.
And if I’m being honest—I still don’t know why I did it.
She wasn’t throwing herself at me. She wasn’t even trying to impress anyone.
But the way she stood up to that prick—defiant, unafraid, mouth sharp as a blade—and the way she didn’t flinch when I made sure he’d never try that shit again…
There was something there.
Something in her eyes that told me she wasn’t weak. That under the shock and nerves, under the cocktail dress and too-honest laugh, there was someone who could hold her own in this world. Maybe even thrive in it.
I gave her the card, assuming she’d toss it.
Most do.
Women like her don’t usually follow through. Not because they can’t—but because they don’t believe they belong here.
But then… she showed up.
She put on black and walked into my club like prey ripe for the taking.
And last night, she watched me.
Not from behind a screen. Not from the safe shadows.
She stood on the edge of The Devil’s Playground and looked me dead in the eye.
I don’t get involved with recruits. That’s not a rule—it’s law.
But this girl?
This girl I barely know…
She’s already broken a rule just by making me notice.
“Knock, knock!” Eve raps her knuckles twice on my open door before walking in, a black folder tucked beneath her arm like it holds state secrets. “Is it my turn to face the gauntlet?”
I huff a quiet laugh, already rising to my feet with a stretch. “Espresso?”
“God, yes.” She makes herself at home in the sitting area—in my chair, of course—crossing one leg over the other as she sets her notepad down.
I move to the coffee bar, the familiar routine of grinding beans and fitting the portafilter into place settling the tension still clinging to my shoulders. The hiss of steam cuts through the quiet as I pour two shots into warmed cups.
“Long night?” she asks, pulling out her pen.
“Could’ve been longer,” I say, setting a cup down in front of her.
She lifts it like a toast. “You should try being the one wrangling over a dozen barely-trained women through nine floors of organized depravity. The Devil might run the club, but I’m the poor soul stuck babysitting the damned.”
“Poor soul,” I echo dryly, lifting my own cup.
I settle into the armchair opposite her, watching as she flips open the folder.
“Noticed you took the recruits home early last night,” I say casually. “Someone couldn’t handle it?”
She shakes her head. “No one bailed, surprisingly. We usually lose at least one to the sensory overload, but this group?” She sips. “Seems set on sticking it out.”
That earns a slow nod from me.
“Interesting.”
“Mm,” Eve hums, flipping a page. “Very.”
She pulls out a printed list, shuffling it neatly on her lap like she always does.
“I’m going alphabetically,” she says. “Easier that way.”
I nod, grabbing my tablet from the end table beside me and unlocking it with a swipe. The new recruits’ profiles are already loaded, thumbnails lined in neat rows. Faces, names, stats.
I scroll slowly, skimming like I always do. I don’t need every detail—just enough to know what I’m working with.
“Two of them advanced to Companion status already,” Eve starts, scanning her own notes. “Both were scouted previously, just needed orientation to meet the standards.”
“The fast-tracked ones?”
“Mm-hmm. Already had soft contracts waiting for them. A few left during the second week. One after waxing day. Couldn’t handle the vulnerability, I think.”
I don’t comment. Some women romanticize this life. Others crumble under the pressure the moment it stops being a fantasy.
“Fifteen are left,” she continues, shifting in the chair. “But we’ll see who sticks around after the first Sponsor week.”
I nod again, scrolling through faces as she talks. Notes on etiquette training, style consultations, sexual boundaries. My eyes catch a flash of platinum blonde, then another with a sharp red bob.
Then—
Auburn.
Rich and full, the same way I remember it from the rooftop. The same hair I spotted across the Devil’s Playground last night, paired with a black bunny mask and eyes wide with want. Even in a two-inch thumbnail photo, she stands out. Like a flare in a dark forest.
Sienna Knight.
The woman in red.
The little rabbit who wandered straight into the wolves’ den.
And didn’t run.
Twenty-four years old. College graduate. Working–well–worked, in some go-nowhere corporate job when her degree would have taken her so much farther.
My thumb pauses just above her profile.
Eve doesn’t miss it.
“Oh yes. Your little protégé,” she says smoothly, tapping her pen against her clipboard. “I can see why you’re interested in her.”
“I’m not interested,” I say, enunciating the word like it offends me.
Eve snorts. “Riiight. And I’m a virgin.”
I lift a brow but don’t rise to the bait.
She leans back into her chair, one leg crossing over the other. “She’s doing well,” she adds after a beat, the smirk giving way to something more thoughtful. “Green in some ways, sure. Definitely inexperienced, especially sexually. But she’s observant. Composed when she wants to be. Smart. Determined. One of the few I think will graduate to sponsorship.”
I nod once, shifting the conversation. “What clients stepped forward?”
“The list just closed this morning. Mixer’s tomorrow night.”
I swipe back to the dashboard and pull up the pre-approved sponsor slate for this batch. Fifteen high-net-worth clients—curated, vetted, and aligned with our standards. All of them with experience in mentoring new recruits. All of them personally cleared by me weeks ago.
I find no fault in any of them. I wouldn’t have approved them if there was.
“As usual,” Eve continues, “they’ll meet the girls, bid on the ones they want to sponsor. Highest bid wins.”
Once the recruits make it past their initial training and assessments, they’ll divide their time between Ledger training and shadowing their sponsors. Clients that teach them the ropes in real-world settings. Personalized guidance. One-on-one mentorship.
And then graduation.
A mutual agreement between client and recruit. When the girls are ready, they sign off. The recruit becomes a Companion moves on to contract work.
I glance through the sponsor list again, though I’m barely registering the names. I know who they are. I know what they want.
My thumb hovers once more—this time over her name.
I should close the file.
“Who do you think the sponsors will want to match with?” I ask instead.
Eve shrugs, feigning indifference. “We’ll see who’s interested in sponsoring her tomorrow.”
“I wasn’t just talking about her.”
She smiles without looking up. “Sure, boss. Whatever you say.”
I don’t dignify it with a reply. I set my tablet down, walk back to my desk, and lock up the files before I leave for my next meeting—one I’m not fucking looking forward to.
I smooth my sleeves, adjust my cuffs, and grab my jacket from the hook.
As I step past her, I speak without looking back.
“Keep me updated.”
Eve’s voice follows, low and knowing. “Of course. About just her or?—”
“Watch it,” I call over my shoulder.
I don’t wait for her laugh, even though I hear it anyway.
By the time the elevator doors close, I’ve shut the file in my mind too. Locked tight.
Because where I’m going next?
There’s no room for distractions.