Chapter 19 #2
She’s worried he’s going to be a problem. Shit, I’m worried about that myself. “With the school’s recent death, he has been somewhat. . . intense.” I hoped she would accept that excuse, that she would not see Rowan as a liability.
My lips still burned from his kiss. I couldn’t identify any logical reason why I was comfortable with him getting away with a stunt like that.
You know why, a dark voice whispered in my mind.
I shoved it away.
Jules led me down a different corridor than before, this one lined with velvet walls in deep burgundy and doors that looked suspiciously soundproof.
We stopped before a door marked with a simple brass plaque: Office.
It opened at her touch, revealing the most ostentatious room I had ever laid eyes on.
Sleek black furniture dominated the space—glossy finishes and clean lines creating a sharp, contemporary aesthetic that screamed money and power.
A wrap-around mahogany desk occupied the far corner, its surface gleaming beneath recessed lighting.
The room smelled like expensive leather and something floral I could not quite identify.
Jules stepped behind the desk and pulled out a thick stack of papers, the pages crisp and official-looking.
“Here is the employment paperwork. Standard contract, tax forms, the usual bureaucracy.” She tapped perfectly manicured nails—white with pink accents—against the documents. “You can have a seat here and fill these out while I make a copy of your license.”
My anxiety spiked, sharp and immediate. Panic clawed at my throat before I could suppress it. Easy, Violet. Standard procedure. They cannot steal your identity with just a driver’s license, right?
I clutched my small purse, realizing how ridiculous my paranoia was, before producing my license for her inspection. “Of course. Here you go.”
She walked towards a door I had not noticed—presumably leading to a copy room—leaving a trail of cotton candy perfume in her wake.
I sat in one of the low chairs at the desk and began filling out the paperwork, scanning clauses about conduct and compensation, when the sound of the door clicking made me look up.
“That was fast—"
The words died in my throat.
A man filled the doorway, and filled was the only appropriate descriptor.
His olive skin possessed an almost supernatural polish, gleaming like burnished umber beneath the office’s warm lighting despite the ivory white suit he wore.
Gold finishes and thread highlighted features that seemed carved rather than born—sharp cheekbones and square jaw, lips that promised either salvation or damnation depending on his mood.
His presence expanded to fill every corner of the room, reminding me of a certain someone who left me perpetually breathless.
Why is everyone in Oubliette so devastatingly attractive?
“Oh, hello,” I managed. “I am. . . I’m sorry, but Jules stepped out momentarily.”
He smiled then, revealing perfectly white teeth. His canines seemed oddly sharp, catching the light in a way that made my pulse kick up.
“Thank you. I am aware of everything that transpires within this club.” His voice was liquid smoke, rich and warm, with an accent I could not quite place yet similar to my family’s. Spanish, perhaps, but older somehow. Refined.
That is an oddly specific statement, I thought, uncertain how to respond to such a declaration.
“Oh. Well, then you know she will return soon.” I offered weakly.
He crossed the room with predatory grace, each step deliberate and silent despite what looked like expensive dress shoes.
Sitting on the desk’s edge, he looked down as if studying me.
I noted his footwear—the same reptilian leather as Andy’s boots, though these were iridescent black that shifted to deep green in certain light.
Actual crocodile, I guessed. . . and obscenely expensive.
He towered over me even while seated, much taller than I was accustomed to—taller it seemed than even Rowan, which seemed impossible.
Or perhaps it was simply how low the chairs sat, designed to make visitors feel small and vulnerable.
Either way, his presence sent butterflies rioting through my stomach as I fought the flush threatening to stain my cheeks.
He offered me his hand, palm up in invitation. “I am Damien, the proprietor of this establishment.”
I really was terrible at first impressions.
“Oh, I am so sorry for not realizing.” I placed my hand in his, expecting a handshake.
Instead, he pulled my knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss against my skin that lingered just long enough to cross from polite to provocative. His lips were warm, soft, and I felt that touch reverberate through my entire body like a struck tuning fork.
“The pleasure is entirely mine. . . Violet? Or would you prefer Alexis? Though I am rather fond of gatita.”
Did he just call me a kitten? I blushed, unable to ignore this man’s magnetic pull. Heat crept up my neck, staining my cheeks. “Either is fine.” I paused, reconsidering. “Actually, Violet. I would prefer to reserve Alexis exclusively for my clients.”
Damien nodded, accepting my boundary without complaint. His amber eyes—and they were genuinely amber, like honey backlit by sunlight—surveyed the desk where my half-completed paperwork lay scattered. He made no comment about the unfinished state.
“You are welcome to use whatever name you wish while within these walls, gatita. I offer you my most genuine gratitude for choosing our fine establishment.”
I hung onto every word that came from his mouth. His voice had a timbre and lilt that set my core quivering, unable to look away. What was wrong with me?
I realized I was staring at him and that he was waiting for me to say something. “Oh, uh. . . well, it wasn’t much of a choice. I simply need supplemental income.” The words tumbled out before I could filter them.
“Oh?” He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his features.
And suddenly I was fumbling, scrambling to recover. “Not to imply this establishment is anything less than exceptional for employment. I’m genuinely excited to work here. Jules is amazing, and—"
As if summoned by her name, Jules swept back into the room and stopped abruptly upon seeing Damien.
Her demeanor shifted from casual to deferential as she said, “I did not realize you had returned already. I would have greeted you properly.” Despite her precarious heels, her steps quickened as she hurried to stand beside me.
He waved a hand with elegant dismissal, continuing his assessment of my paperwork.
“It is of no consequence. So, this Violet. . . she is the one you spoke so highly of?” His eyes found mine again, and I squirmed under that penetrating gaze—as if he could see through flesh and bone straight into my soul.
“Yes,” Jules said as she placed a hand on my shoulder. It was a maternal gesture that caught me off guard. “Honestly, her skill on the stage nearly rivals my own.”
I knew I was good—you didn’t survive years of forced performance without developing exceptional skills—and while the validation felt gratifying, I was stunned by her admission.
I recalled from my first life how breathtaking Jules had been on the stage.
She literally taught me everything I knew about the pole.
He acknowledged what she’d said with a slight nod, then placed my paperwork down with careful precision. “That is good to hear. As long as she is an employee of Oubliette, she will have my protection.”
The words settled over me like a weighted blanket—comfort and confinement in equal measure.
Jules squeezed my shoulder as she said, “I will ensure it is known throughout Oubliette.” She paused, something flickering across her features. “And the one she arrived with?”
Damien gave the smallest shrug. “Am I expected to be hiring him as well? Is he meant to serve as Romeo’s partner at the front door?”
Suddenly, I felt as if I were trapped in the middle of a negotiation—Damien as the boss, Jules as the consigliere, leaving Rowan and I as nothing more than assets being discussed like property. While I appreciated Jules’s support, I refused to let Rowan suffer any consequences for my choices.
I cleared my throat. “May I interrupt?”
Both sets of piercing eyes turned to me, amber and cerulean, and I willed myself to remain steady beneath their combined scrutiny.
“Given Shademore’s current predicament, Rowan—my friend—will want to accompany me during my shifts here.”
When he spoke, Damien’s voice carried a polite curiosity undercut with steel. “And this becomes a concern of mine. . . in what way, precisely?”
I pushed forward, knowing full well this could destroy my entire plan. But after Rowan’s stubborn display of protectiveness, I couldn’t simply discard him. He would march straight to Daddy, and then I would have much larger problems than negotiating with the proprietor of a gentleman’s club.
“It isn’t a concern. He is merely providing security.
” I chose my words carefully, building my argument.
“It will not interfere with my dancing, and honestly, since I have no intention of offering private dances, I anticipate my evenings will be relatively brief. In and out, efficient and professional.”
I was gambling everything on this negotiation.
I knew from observing other dancers that one-on-one sessions were optional—an additional revenue stream rather than a requirement.
After enduring years of assault in my previous life, I possessed zero interest in having strangers touch me, regardless of compensation.
Except with certain people, noting how neither Jules nor Rowan’s contact triggered my usual panic response.
I filed that observation away for later analysis.
Damien contemplated my words, his expression unreadable. Finally, he directed his scrutinizing gaze to Jules. “She is nearly on par with your skills, you said?”