Chapter 5
The staff stood single file in the prep hall, troops awaiting inspection, collars buttoned, aprons crisp, shoes polished to a mirror shine. Regina paced in front with a general’s scrutiny, eyes scanning for the tiniest sin—an untucked cuff, a crooked knot, a slouch.
She took a stack of papers from her clipboard and handed it to the server on the end closest to her. “Take one and pass them down,” she said then waited as the stack moved down the line.
“This is your NDA. Read it. Sign it. Don’t ask questions.”
Her dark eyes swept the room, promising retribution to anyone who dared.
Regina didn’t tolerate mistakes. Compared to her, Attila the Hun was a cuddly teddy bear.
Emily fished a pen out of her waiter’s apron, ready to sign as soon as the stack reached her.
She’d already said yes—she wouldn’t lose this shift, or the desperately needed payday, on principle.
One wrong word in front of a person with power—she’d learned—could cost you everything.
Emily jumped when the door banged open. Beth Ann barreled in, breathless and ten minutes late. Tension rippled down the row—some faces tightened with annoyance; others softened with sympathy. Regina’s jaw clenched. She hated tardiness. Slackers didn’t last long in her employ.
Surprisingly, she continued with her pre-event lecture rather than calling Beth Ann out in front of everyone, which was what Emily expected.
“If you plan to work for me again, keep your mouths shut about what you see and hear. After your shift is over and you’ve collected your more-than-generous compensation for six hours of work, you’ll forget you were ever there. ”
“Ever where?” Beth Ann asked from the end of the line, in her typical airhead style.
Emily nearly groaned. At twenty, Beth Ann sometimes acted half her age. How she’d made it through two years of college when she never listened or followed directions was beyond her. The girl never stopped talking. If silence ever became a survival skill, she was doomed.
Beside her, Julia mouthed a silent countdown from three. Before she reached one, the sound of papers ripping echoed sharply as Regina snatched the packet from Beth Ann’s hands.
“Get out,” she snapped.
“What?” the girl asked, dumbfounded.
“You heard me. You’re fired.”
“But… I need this job,” Beth Ann said, tears brimming.
“What you need is to learn to shut your mouth,” Regina shot back. “My clients don’t want a Chatty Cathy serving them dinner. Waitstaff must be invisible—until they’re needed.”
“I’ll do better,” Beth Ann begged.
“Not here, you won’t.” Regina’s heels clicked on the tile floor as she strode across the room, yanked the door open, and held it wide.
“Please…”
“Out!” she barked again.
Once the sobbing girl fled, the door slammed behind her. The lock clicked—final and unforgiving.
Emily stared at the door, heart thudding as silence fell over the room. She should say something. Stand up to Regina the Bully, but she needed this job too. A bad decision had upended her life once—she wasn’t in the position to do that again.
Everyone held their breath. Even the air felt afraid to move as Regina scanned them with narrowed, unyielding eyes. “Anyone else incapable of keeping their mouth shut?” When no one so much as breathed, she stated, “I didn’t think so.”
Regina hadn’t gotten where she was—with four restaurants and a custom catering service lauded for exceptional food and impeccable service—by being a pushover. She demanded perfection from her staff, not attitude and definitely not lip. Still, did she have to be a bitch and humiliate poor Beth Ann?
Emily often thought her boss would look right at home in a black leather catsuit, cracking a whip—fitting, given tonight’s venue.
Regina’s phone buzzed. “What now?” she snapped, stepping aside to take the call.
Barely moving her lips, Emily whispered to Julia. “Should we go after her? Make sure she gets home?”
“Are you serious?” Julia hissed.
“She was upset and probably shouldn’t be driving,” Emily pressed.
“Beth Ann will be fine. She’ll text Daddy for a ride. If you want to stay employed, don’t so much as twitch. Regina’s in rare form tonight.”
“Something you want to share, Miss Dykstra?” Having ended her call, the owner faced them again, arms crossed, one designer pump tapping impatiently.
“No, ma’am,” Julia choked out in a fine impression of a frog. “Just asking for a pen to sign on the dotted line.”
“Mm-hmm,” Regina grunted, suspicious but not pressing further.
“Leave your signed NDAs on the counter and help finish loading the vans. If you’re too delicate for heavy lifting or scared of breaking a nail, don’t bother.
” Her gaze landed on Emily—who hadn’t had a manicure since high school—before she added, “And remember to check your prudish sensibilities at the door.”
Emily followed Julia’s advice and didn’t blink or inhale.
“Make it quick,” Regina barked. “The vans leave in five minutes. Anyone whose ass isn’t in a seat gets left behind. Test me and see how serious I am.”
With only a cursory glance at the contract, Emily scribbled her name at the bottom. Missing the van meant her tuition and rent went unpaid. She’d seen the harsh reality of furniture dumped on the curb and locks changed. She wasn’t about to let that happen.
The others must be in similar straits because she wasn’t the first marching outside with a crate of supplies. As she hefted hers into the rear of the van, she pictured the pile of bills and past due notices waiting at home.
No matter what kind of crazy shit went on at this ultra-exclusive event, she planned to be there, sporting a smile with her lips sealed as tight as Fort Knox. She could stomach the awkwardness for the right price.
She’d sunk low, all the way to rock bottom. But tonight would help her rise.
***
Upon arrival, Regina led them through the caterer’s kitchen—sleek appliances, gleaming cookware, and patio access so seamless, it made Emily’s inner chef ache with envy.
It was a setup she’d only seen in glossy magazines, not in real life.
Even the air here felt polished and expensive, a world she didn’t belong to but desperately wanted a piece of.
Regina rattled off expectations, pointed out the service zones, and made one thing crystal clear: everything else was strictly off-limits. Then, stopping short of saying, “chop-chop,” she released everyone to work.
Near the end of her shift, Emily went in search of a bathroom—strange that it hadn’t been on the tour.
But the sounds drifting from the back hall—moans, sharp rhythmic thwaps, and music pulsing like a heartbeat—pulled her in more than any plumbing.
Heat, leather, and a thin thread of sweetness seeped through the corridor, inviting her closer.
She intended only a quick peek through the first door but slipped inside, curiosity overwhelming restraint.
The space unfolded before her, lit by only a handful of spotlights. Behind velvet ropes, carnal, shocking, wildly explicit acts played out. Emily stood rooted to the spot, unable to blink—let alone move.
Her lips formed a soundless oh as her attention locked onto a woman splayed on a tall wooden cross along the back wall.
Her flushed skin glistened, thick leather cuffs secured her wrists and ankles, and she wore nothing else.
A tall, impossibly fit man in a molded-on black T-shirt and matching trousers teased her with the business end of a riding crop, each flick and slap echoing through the sprawling room as fifty onlookers watched in rapt silence.
The contrast between her vulnerability on display and the absolute control in his movements made something coil low in Emily’s belly.
She’d never witnessed anything so raw, exposed, and unapologetically erotic. Her pulse fluttered, cheeks warmed, and she became aware of how tightly she gripped the edge of her tray. But it wasn’t embarrassment that rooted her to the spot.
Shock, yes. Curiosity, absolutely. But more than anything, her body hummed with arousal when the leather square connected with the underside of the woman’s breasts and flicked lightly across her taut nipples.
Her first thought was ouch. But she focused on the man.
He moved with the precision of someone who understood his power and knew how to wield it without crossing the line.
He didn’t raise and drop his arm; he snapped his wrist, each stroke controlled and deliberate.
The woman’s answering moans held no pain, only pleasure.
Imagining the soft kiss of leather on her own skin, Emily felt certain of it.
When he paused and leaned in, his lips traced from her shoulder up to her ear. Whatever he whispered made her smile and nod. His laughter—low, sexy, intimate—drifted to the crowd forming a half-circle around the large wooden X.
He stepped back, letting the crop trail down her body. Every so often, the leather would land with a thwap, drawing a collective breath from her and the audience.
Slender but shapely, and beautiful even with a blindfold obscuring half her face, the woman arched against the cross. Each soft cry and evocative moan ended with the slow sweep of her tongue along her scarlet lips.
When the crop traced her inner thighs, her body bowed away from the wood.
The man in black released a low satisfied hum and adjusted his stance.
His wrist angled before he delivered a series of short, crisp strokes directly to her pussy—precise, teasing, achingly deliberate.
The woman didn’t shy away from the contact; she leaned into it, as much as her bound limbs would allow.
Emily didn’t flinch. A hurricane could have made landfall, and she wouldn’t have moved while the couple under the lights carried on. His control, the intimacy threaded through every touch, the way his rumbling approval met her breathless sighs, felt more like a language only the two of them spoke.