Chapter 1
Julian
A little over one year later
“I’ll be there, Mel.”
Chilled water sluices over my hands as I scrub meticulously under my nails. My sister’s voice echoes through the phone’s speaker, her high-pitched tone ricocheting off the marble and steel surfaces of the massive kitchen.
“Don’t be late, Jules. The chef I hired is bringing samples for the party, and you know I have terrible taste in food.”
I chuckle, the thin bristles of the brush scraping harshly under my thumbnail until every last grain of dirt is gone. Amelia does have terrible taste in food. She never quite grew out of her childhood palette, still ordering buttered noodles and french fries even at the fanciest restaurants.
“I told you I’d be there, so please have some faith in me.”
“What are you doing?” she asks a moment before I turn off the faucet and grab the towel draped over the sink. “Sounds like you’re doing dishes, but that can’t be right.”
“Ha ha,” I quip back sarcastically. Without answering her question, I redirect the conversation. “Who are you bringing to the anniversary party?”
“Bringing?” she asks with hesitation in her voice. “Like a date?”
“Yes, like a date.”
I can practically hear her chewing on her bottom lip. “No one. I mean…are you supposed to bring a date to your parents’ anniversary party?”
Picking up my black and silver rings piled on the counter, I slide each one on while smiling to myself at my sister’s nervous response. “Relax, Mel. You don’t have to bring anyone.”
“I’ll just sit by Matis.”
“Sure,” I respond with a shrug.
“You know…” she says, and the mischievous sound of her voice makes me pause. “My friend Freya will be there.”
“Have I met her?” I ask, walking into the living room. Onyx meows on the back of the couch, so I stroke a hand down her back as I search my memory.
“No. She’s the chef.”
“The one you hired?” I ask, my eyes narrowing.
“Yes. Is that a problem for you?”
“Why would that be a problem?” I reply with bite. “I simply asked if she was the same friend you hired to cater Mom and Dad’s party. Chill with the matchmaking attempts. I’m sure she’s nice, but I’m not dating your friend.”
Onyx purrs as she rubs herself against my shirt. It’s a good thing she’s black. Her fur manages to stick to everything, no matter how many times I run a brush over it, but it never shows up on my black-on-black ensemble.
“Hey, Jules, I gotta run. Mom’s calling me on the other line.”
“Wait, Mel. You’re not going to the club today, are you?”
She pauses. “It’s Wednesday. It’s your day. Besides, I almost never go in unless Jack needs something or we have a meeting. So you’re safe.”
With a wince, I say, “Thanks.”
When running a sex club with your sister, it’s always wise to be intentional with your time and boundaries. Amelia’s business in the club is absolutely none of mine, but I’m fairly certain that all she does there is occasionally work, decorating for events and picking fabric and paint samples.
As for me, I don’t need my little sister walking around while I’m there, doing very nonbusiness things. Hence, the schedule. She only goes in on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays, and I only go in on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.
“Four o’clock tomorrow. Don’t be late!” she adds before the line goes dead.
“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur to myself. As soon as the call with Amelia ends, the apartment is bathed in tense, bleak silence. Onyx meows again, so I glance down at her with a tender smile.
She jumps down from the couch, and I walk to the ornate gold-framed mirror by the front door to check my appearance. Ice-blue eyes stare back, lifeless and cutting, as a piece of nearly white hair falls over my brow.
I pull open the entryway table drawer, grabbing the lint roller to swipe over my shirt in brisk, precise strokes.
Once it’s clean, I put the brush back and check myself in the mirror again.
My impeccably tailored shirt, a shade of inky black, fits snugly over my shoulders.
Yet something about my reflection feels slightly off.
I slip the top two buttons of my shirt from their slots, peeling each side back to offer a glimpse of my pale chest underneath. The open collar frames the silver chains stacked against my skin.
Perfect.
If someone were watching me, it might appear as if I’m admiring myself, staring too long at my reflection, but I’m not. I’m perfecting. I flick the stray hair back into place, adjust the chains resting against my chest, and square my shoulders. Every detail is deliberate. Every thread, a barrier.
No one looks too close when you shine so bright.
Everything from the Cifonelli tailored button-down shirt to the custom Tom Ford shoes is a way for me to hold the entire world at arm’s length. You can look, but you can’t touch. Some may call me austere and standoffish, and honestly, I take pride in that.
As it so happens, that’s exactly the effect I’m going for.
Lost in the reflection, I jolt with a yelp as the piano in the corner of my apartment clangs loudly. Spinning around, I glare daggers at Onyx as she heedlessly traipses over the keys.
“You scared the shit out of me!”
She responds with an unapologetic meow, continuing her way up to a high C-sharp before jumping to the floor. With a roll of my eyes, I snatch my keys from the bowl on the table and shove them into my pocket.
“Fucking cat,” I grumble under my breath. “I should have left you freezing in the snow where I found you.”
She yowls again in response while I grab my coat from the hook and march out the door, jabbing a finger on the elevator button. When I reach the ground floor, the hired car is waiting as I step out in the frigid Parisian January air. Climbing in, I mutter a greeting to my driver.
“Salut, Lucien. Toujours en forme?”
He glances back at me through the rearview mirror.
Lucien has been my family’s driver since I was three.
He has picked me up drunk from nearly every bar or club in this town, and he once parked the car in a garage and stood outside while I lost my virginity to a girl in my class. Lucien is the best.
“Toujours, Monsieur Julian. Et vous?”
I give him a shrug. Am I going strong? Not quite, but I don’t want to get into the specifics with him right now.
“To the club, sir?” he asks in English.
“Yes, please.”
He doesn’t make small talk on our drives, which I appreciate. With Amelia or my parents, it’s different. They love to pass the time talking to Lucien about his family or the weather or whatever event is taking place in our city at the time.
As for me, I like the quiet. My eyes don’t stray from my phone, except for when we turn at the Arc de Triomphe. Staring out the window, I watch as tourists gather beneath the arch for photos, smiling together while the madness of Paris’s traffic winds erratically around them.
When we reach the club a few moments later, I voice a quick goodbye to Lucien before climbing out and unlocking the front door of the building with my key. It’s still hours before the doors will open for the public, but I have work to attend to before the festivities begin.
Weston is already behind the bar doing inventory as I walk in.
Forgoing a greeting to him, I climb up the stairs toward the hall of offices on the next floor up.
Jack’s voice echoes through the narrow space when I pass his open door.
He doesn’t wave exactly. It’s more of a nonchalant head tilt, acknowledging my presence.
After making it through the first year of owning it together, as my father initially requested, Jack and I can at least stand each other now. Part of that is due to the fact that we figured out how to put our differences aside and actually listen to each other.
And the other part is due to the cute French girl who came into his life as his nanny and made him a nice, tolerable person again. Now, he treats me like a real partner, and sometimes—sometimes—I actually enjoy working with him.
When I reach my office, I close the door.
There’s a cheap coffee maker in the corner that everyone gives me hell about.
It’s a crime against coffee, especially in Paris, and the little silver pods have to be special ordered, but it’s the only coffee I like.
Clicking it on, I wait for the machine to warm up as I pull off my coat and drape it on the hook.
When my coffee is done, I pour copious amounts of sugar in, only making the travesty worse, and take it over to my computer.
As I open my desk drawer to pull out a pen, the orange Lexapro prescription bottle rolls into view, and I start to reach for it but hesitate. When was the last time I took them? A week? Two?
And look at me, I’m fine.
Besides, this new project requires my attention, and I don’t need the meds flattening my brain out so I can’t think.
After snatching the pen, I slam the drawer shut.
I’ve been working all month on some new ideas for the club.
Specifically, I’m trying to implement a system of wristbands for our patrons to wear, signifying what sorts of activities they would or would not be open to.
Jack was excited about the idea—honestly, I think he was excited that I had an idea at all—but my only hurdle right now is trying to make the wristbands sleek and classy enough.
I’m not handing out cheap acrylic junk in our highly exclusive club.
There’s an email from the manufacturer with a proof that I’m still not happy with.
So I waste another two hours working on a new design as well as a few other ideas for the club, including collaboration with the city’s Pride fest, theme nights, and a tech-driven VR experience.
Jack’s less keen on that concept, but only because he’s old and I haven’t fully wowed him with the vision yet.
Around seven, I hear the bass thump through the floor from the club downstairs. I haven’t even felt the last three hours pass by. I lost count of how many coffees I’ve had, and it registers that I should probably eat.