Chapter Three None of My Business
By the time I got back from class, my brain felt like it had been dragged behind a car.
Summer classes were a scam. Everything moved faster, there was more work, and somehow you were still expected to keep up like you had nothing else going on.
Which would have been fine if I didn’t also have a job and a life I was apparently no longer allowed to live, because between work, studying, and being on my best behavior, I was starting to feel like I was failing at all three at once.
I pushed the door open with my shoulder and glanced toward the hallway. “Hello?” I called, hoping for an answer.
Nothing came back. I hesitated, then walked past the kitchen and down to his office, leaning just enough to look inside. Empty. I let my bag slide of my shoulder next to the small couch that occupied one side of the office.
A week ago, he’d told me to use the office to study instead after coming home to find me spread out across the dining table with papers everywhere, and at the time it had felt like one more rule to deal with.
Now it had turned into something else. I liked being in there when he was home, liked taking up space on the office couch and owning the coffee table, asking questions I didn’t really need answers to, finding small ways to interrupt him just to see how he handled it.
So yeah, walking in and finding it empty wasn’t exactly a win. And I hated that I felt oddly disappointed by it.
I exhaled through my nose, stepped inside anyway, and dropped my bag next to the couch before flopping down onto it. I stretched out without thinking, my feet landing on the coffee table.
I noticed it a second too late.
He hated that.
I moved them after a second, dropping my feet back to the floor with a quiet exhale. It wasn’t even fun if he wasn’t here to see it, and that was the part I tried not to think about too hard, the fact that I’d started doing it just to get a reaction out of him.
It started that way, at least. Push just enough to annoy him, see if I could get a reaction, see if I could make him regret agreeing to this whole thing and send me somewhere else. Maybe loosen something up in the process, like that curfew.
Except he never snapped. He didn’t raise his voice or argue. He just… corrected it. The same way every time. Calm, steady, like it wasn’t a question of if I’d listen, just when. And somewhere along the way I found myself doing things to get more off that attention.
I stared at the ceiling, thinking about the way he’d look at me when I pushed it, not angry, not even irritated, just waiting, like he already knew how it was going to end.
Like I did too. Sometimes I’d fix it right away.
Sometimes I’d drag it out a second longer just to feel it, that pause, that attention settling on me before he said my name in that low, even tone that didn’t need to get louder to land.
I should find it annoying, but it never felt that way. It felt like for once someone dropped everything else for a second and focused just on me and whatever I'd done. And it took only a week for me to start craving that attention.
Which was…
Not great.
Because now my brain was taking it further, filling in things I hadn’t asked it to, wondering what that same tone would sound like if it wasn’t about dishes or laundry or where my feet were supposed to be. Or if heaven forbid he got some enjoyment out of talking like that to me.
I stared up at the ceiling again, jaw tightening a little. Cause the thought had been ringing in my head for days now.
What would he do if the situation were different? Would he still sound like that, calm and certain, like he already knew exactly how it would end? Or would it change, drop lower, rougher, when he didn’t have to pretend it was about dishes or rules?
My stomach tightened at the thought before I could stop it.
Would his hands be just as steady, just as sure, or would they press harder, guide instead of correct? Would he still say my name like that, or would he say something else entirely, something that didn’t leave room to argue, something that made it very clear I wasn’t the one in control anymore?
I shifted on the couch, heat creeping up my neck, because my brain didn’t stop there.
It filled in the rest without asking, the distance between us disappearing, his attention locking in the same way it did when I pushed him, only this time it wouldn’t be about fixing something. It would be about me.
About what I’d do if he told me to stop talking. Or come here. Or kneel.
My breath caught for a second, sharp and quiet, and I pressed my lips together, staring harder at the ceiling like that would shut it down.
It didn’t.
The thought lingered anyway, low and warm and way too easy to picture.
I shifted on the couch, suddenly very aware of how quiet the apartment was and nearly jumped out of my skin, when my phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Are you alright?”
Of course it was Jonas.
I cleared my throat, trying to sound normal. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You sound out of breath.”
I sat up straighter without thinking, like he could somehow see me through the phone. “I just got back and took the stairs.”
“There are six flights.”
“I know,” I said quickly. “I needed the cardio.”
There was a pause on the other end, and I could practically feel him deciding whether or not to call me on it before he continued, “I need a favor.”
“Okay.”
“A package was delivered to the apartment instead of my office. I need you to check that it’s there and not damaged.”
“Yeah, I can do that.”
“It should be in the mailroom.”
“I’ll go now.”
“Take the elevator.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, sir.”
There was a beat on the line, like he was about to say something else. Then a quiet sound came through the speaker—low, brief, and cut off almost immediately as the call ended.
I stared at my phone.
Had that been… a groan?
Heat crept up my neck before I could stop it, because it hadn’t sounded like irritation. It hadn’t sounded like anything work-related. It had sounded—
No.
I pushed myself up off the couch a little too quickly, like I could shake the thought loose if I moved fast enough.
It was nothing. Just a normal conversation. I wasn’t going to start reading into every little sound like that.
I definitely wasn’t going to decide he was enjoying this too.
“Stop,” I muttered under my breath, grabbing my phone a little tighter than necessary.
I've just been busy. That had to be it. Classes, work, coming home, dealing with him. I hadn’t had time to think about anything else, no dating, no flirting. Obviously no sex. Nothing that would normally keep my brain occupied.
So yeah, just my brain filling in gaps.
That had to be it.
There was no way I was sitting here thinking about my dad’s business partner like that. I pushed myself up off the couch.
Because seriously, he was older, a lot older, and completely put together in a way I had never been.
Disciplined, controlled, the kind of man who probably had his entire life mapped out somewhere and actually followed it.
Men like that didn’t look at girls like me and think anything worth acting on, and even if they did, they definitely didn’t do anything about it.
I grabbed the mail key off the counter and headed out, taking the elevator. The mailroom was quiet, the lights humming overhead as I walked down until I found his unit, and the package was there. No dents or signs of being mishandled.
I pulled it out along with the rest of the mail and shifted everything into my arms before heading back to the elevator, sending him a quick text as I waited.
It’s here. Looks fine.
His reply came almost immediately.
Leave it on my desk. I’ll get it later.
I leaned back against the wall as the elevator doors closed and glanced down at what I was holding, flipping through it without really thinking. Bills, business mail, something official looking, and then a postcard caught my eye.
The postcard was glossy, dark in a way that caught the light without being flashy, the kind of thing that didn’t need to beg for attention because it already knew it would get it. The lettering across the front was simple, clean, and deliberate.
Club Temptation.
I turned it over, expecting something loud or tacky, but the back was the same kind of polished. Clean. Bare. Not flashy, just the kind of thing that looked expensive and private and very much not meant for random people.
Orientation Night – New Members Welcome.
Thank you for being a member. We invite you to attend Orientation Night for those interested in the lifestyle. Discretion is expected at all times. Guided introductions and structured experiences will be provided in a private, supervised setting.
I swallowed, my eyes moving slower now as I took it in.
Experienced members are requested to assist with introductions and guidance. In appreciation, participating members will receive complimentary entry for the evening and a reduced bar tab.
Something in my chest tightened as it clicked into place, because this wasn’t some random ad or edgy bar trying too hard, it was for him. Jonas. A member. The kind of member they expected to show up early and guide people through whatever this was, not just stand around with a drink.
I read the line again, slower, like it might change if I gave it a second chance, but it didn’t, and now all I could think was what kind of club calls itself Temptation and writes like that, like everyone reading already knows exactly what they’re getting into.
My grip on the postcard tightened as I stepped out of the elevator, trying to picture it and failing, because it didn’t match the man I’d been living with all week, and at the same time it fit a little too well in a way I couldn’t quite explain.
Back in the apartment, I set everything on his desk like he asked, sliding the postcard underneath the rest like I hadn’t been reading it in the elevator, and then I walked away because whatever it was, wasn’t my business.
At all.
I made it all the way back to my room fully convinced of that fact...for like two minutes. Then I swooped up my phone and started searching.
“Just to see,” I muttered. Another lie. I needed to know what Jonas was into.
A quick search, and the site loaded, and I stopped dead, staring at the screen as I scrolled.
It wasn’t vague. It wasn’t subtle. It just didn’t bother pretending.
Photos of rooms with low lighting and mirrors angled in ways that made it obvious people were meant to watch.
A section labeled voyeur rooms with a few glossy shots of couches facing glass, silhouettes on the other side blurred just enough to be suggestive.
Another page showed a dungeon setup, real equipment, not costume stuff, racks, restraints, ropes coiled neatly, paddles and whips laid out like tools waiting to be used.
Descriptions that talked about scenes, supervision, consent, structure.
My stomach dropped a little as it clicked into place.
This wasn’t a bar. It was a sex club.
I leaned back slowly, phone still in my hand, eyes tracking over the screen again like maybe I’d misread something the first time.
“No way,” I whispered.
Jonas?
That didn’t fit. Not with what I knew about him. He was controlled, structured, strict in a way that made everything else in his life feel intentional, and this was… people watching other people have sex, rooms built for it, rules around it, entire spaces designed for whatever this lifestyle was.
I scrolled again, slower now, trying to force it to make sense anyway. Maybe he just went for drinks. Maybe he stayed out of the rooms. Maybe it was networking, something surface level that didn’t actually involve any of this.
I let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, because even as the thought crossed my mind, I knew it didn’t hold up.
I dropped my phone onto the bed and stared at it like it had started this.
Friday.
The postcard had mentioned Friday, and I told myself, again, that it wasn’t my business, that I had no reason to get involved, that this was one of those things you see and then politely ignore like a normal person.
Except I wasn’t ignoring it. I couldn’t.
It kept circling back, that word, that night, the idea of him there in a place like that, not just showing up but being expected, wanted, involved.
And then another thought slipped in, one mean enough that I should have probably been embarrassed by it.
What if he was into some truly freaky shit?
What if I went and found out exactly what kind?
I stared at the wall for a second, the idea spreading before I could shut it down.
Maybe knowing wouldn’t just make things complicated.
Maybe it would make things easier. Maybe if I knew what he got up to in a place called Club Temptation, I could use it.
Not even in some huge dramatic way, just enough to loosen his grip on all the stupid rules he’d dropped on me.
Maybe the curfew could disappear. Maybe I could stop acting like I was grounded at twenty-one because my dad’s business partner had decided that was how this was going to go.
But no. What Jonas is in to is none of my business.
I pressed my lips together, harder this time, like that would make it stick. I didn’t need to know. Knowing didn’t change anything. It didn’t fix my classes, it didn’t make living here easier, and it definitely didn’t erase the fact that sneaking around in his private life was a shitty thing to do.
But I could already feel myself leaning into it anyway.
I let out a slow breath and stared back down at the bed like I could force myself to care more about being decent than I cared about that stupid postcard.
Yeah. No. I wasn’t going.
I wasn’t.
…probably.