CHAPTER 4 – A TOUR OF THE CLUB
Daisy
I’ve been in my suite for a few hours now after the meeting with Veronique earlier. She promised that I’d get a tour of the club, but didn’t say when it would be happening. So I wait patiently, the quiet enveloping me.
It’s not a normal kind of quiet, either.
This is a luxurious quiet, so thick you can hear the faint echo of your own heartbeat, the hush of dust motes floating under designer lighting.
The only sound in the suite is the soft fizz of seltzer from a cut-glass carafe on the tray beside the bed, and the almost imperceptible hum of hidden electronics. Outside, nothing but city sky.
I haven’t moved in forty minutes, except to change into a pale cashmere sweater and some slinky lounge pants from the closet.
Both pieces are soft enough to be spun from clouds and probably cost more than my entire wardrobe back home—if I had a home.
I try not to think about what I don’t remember.
It only makes my head ache and my heart race.
Instead, I lie on my stomach, peering over the edge of the bed at the view beyond the window.
The skyline is all glass and steel, mirrored towers so tall they must have been assembled by titans.
The city below is unfamiliar, but something about the endless grid feels like a map to my old life, if only I knew how to read it.
I’m on my second glass of seltzer when there’s a knock—polite, but so perfectly timed I jump anyway, sloshing ice onto my bare foot. I scramble to mop it with a pillowcase before calling, “Come in?”
The door opens and in walks Veronique. The older woman’s heels make no noise on the thick carpet, and her lips spread in a red smile.
“Mademoiselle Daisy,” she says. “It’s good to see you again. I trust your accommodations are satisfactory?”
Her voice is a pureed accent—French, maybe, but sanded down to a fine, cosmopolitan polish. She carries a lacquered tray set for tea: white porcelain, scones with little pots of jam, fresh lemon slices in a crystal bowl. If she notices the chaos of sheets in the bedroom, she doesn’t comment.
I start to stand, then think better of it. “Yes, it’s wonderful here. Thank you for having me. Also, you can just call me Daisy, no mademoiselle needed.”
She gives the smallest of nods, and behind her follows another woman, young like me, with a smile that’s warm and friendly.
She’s gorgeous—big green eyes, lush, chestnut hair in loose waves, and a figure that could stop traffic.
Her dress is blue-black, cut low in the front and tight across her chest, and her walk is more sway than stride.
“May I introduce Sophia?” Veronique says, voice still perfectly modulated. “Sophia’s one of our girls.”
Our girls? What does that mean? But Sophia does a little half-curtsy, which in any other context would be awkward, but here is weirdly appropriate. She moves closer, and the scent of some spicy, expensive perfume floats over to me. I smile, half-nervous, half-hypnotized.
“Hi Daisy! I’m here to make sure you’re happy,” she says, voice friendly. “And to show you around the club, if you want. You must be going crazy up here, all alone.”
I blink at her, then at Veronique. “Yes, I’d love a tour, thanks.”
Veronique sets the tray on the coffee table, her movements smooth as poured oil. “Bon. Sanctum prides itself on guest experience. Given your unique situation, we thought a tour would be in order.”
“Yes, thank you. I just—” I make a vague circle motion at my head, “You know right? I’m still a little scrambled.”
Veronique’s eyes flick over the small bandage, then rest on my face. “You are resilient, Daisy. I suspect you will recover soon.”
There’s something in her look—a calculation, maybe, like she’s weighing not just my words but my entire existence. I shrink a little under the attention, but Sophia is already moving to pour tea, filling the cup without a single splash.
“I made the mistake of sleeping in once after a party here,” Sophia confides, handing me the cup. “Woke up to Veronique bringing breakfast in person. The next day, I applied for a job.”
Veronique’s lips curl, just enough to say the story is not only true, but probably a club tradition.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the cup. The tea is a golden color, clear as whiskey, and the steam smells like citrus and honey. I take a sip, then another. It’s criminally good.
Veronique pours her own cup but doesn’t sit, just stands behind the coffee table with her hands folded, watching us with the watchfulness of a chess master.
Sophia tucks one leg under herself and lounges on the edge of the couch, her foot elegantly clad in high heels.
The room is suddenly small, the three of us contained in a bubble of warmth and expensive silence.
“So,” Veronique begins, voice gentle, “do you recall anything more about the events leading to your accident?”
I shake my head. “No. Just flashes. Streetlights, a car, maybe a song on the radio. Then nothing.”
Sophia leans in, her eyes soft. “You’ll get it back, eventually. Sometimes it just takes a day, or a trigger.”
“Trigger?” I ask, instantly on guard.
“Like a smell, or a taste, or even a touch,” Sophia says, her tone light but her gaze lingering. “Sometimes the right thing can bring memories to the surface.”
“Indeed,” Veronique agrees. “For now, your only duty is to heal, and enjoy your stay. If there is anything you desire, tell Sophia and she will see to it.”
She turns to Sophia, and the two women share a look—brief, but full of unspoken understanding. I feel like a bug under glass, observed, maybe even catalogued.
Veronique drains her tea, sets the cup down with a click, and glances at her phone. “I will leave you ladies. Sophia, you have the run of the club.”
Sophia beams, and as Veronique exits, she gives a little wave. The door clicks behind her, and for a moment, the room feels less heavy.
“She’s nice, right?” Sophia says, almost conspiratorial.
“She’s terrifying,” I reply, then cover my mouth. “Oh my god, is she your boss?”
Sophia laughs, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “Sort of. Veronique’s everyone’s boss, really. But she only gets scary when you spill on the vintage rugs.”
I relax, a fraction. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself. Sophia’s laugh is infectious, and her presence is magnetic in a way that has nothing to do with fear. The young woman studies me, sipping her tea with both hands around the cup, elbows on her knees.
“You’re really pretty,” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I can see why he likes you.”
My face goes hot. “Thanks? You’re—you’re like, supermodel gorgeous, though.”
She grins, showing a hint of mischief. “It’s the lighting. Everything here is designed to make the girls feel beautiful. Even the mirrors.”
I glance at the nearest mirror, and she’s right: my skin looks glowy, my hair extra gold, my figure more curvy and lush. Maybe this place is a hallucination.
“So you work here, right? What’s it like?” I ask.
Sophia leans back, crossing her legs, as she thinks. “It’s like being a flight attendant on a private jet. Everything’s elegant, everyone’s rich, and the nuts are warm.” She winks. “But it pays well, and you get to meet men from all over the world.”
I fidget with the edge of my cup. “Do you ever get weirded out at all the luxury?”
Sophia shrugs, but it’s a slow, deliberate shrug. “Not anymore. It’s not as wild as you think, but it can be intense. The billionaires who come here are used to getting what they want. Some want a drinking buddy. Some want to talk about the stock market. Some just want to be alone, but not lonely.”
“And what do the women want?” I ask, surprising myself.
She smiles again, this time softer. “Depends. Some want love, some want escape, some want to feel like they matter. Same as anywhere.”
I look down at my hands, turning the cup in slow circles. My nails are a polished pink. For a second, I wish I had her poise, her easy confidence.
Sophia reaches out and taps my wrist, her touch feather-light. “Hey. You okay?”
I look up, into those green eyes. There’s no judgment there, just curiosity and a little bit of kindness.
“Yeah,” I say, and it’s not a lie. “I just feel like I’m on another planet.”
She squeezes my wrist, then lets go. “It’s a good planet. You’ll see.”
We sit for a while, sipping tea, not talking. I get the sense that she’s waiting for me to say something, but I can’t think of a single question that won’t make me sound crazy.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “Wanna see the rest of the club? There’s a spa, an art gallery, and a library that’s mostly whiskey and cigars.”
I nod, and she jumps up, smooth as a cat. “Follow me, Miss Daisy.”
As I stand, she steps behind me and arranges my sweater so it drapes just so over my chest. Her fingers are warm and sure, and when she adjusts my hair, she lets it tumble down my back, then brushes her hand over my shoulder.
“There,” she says, “now you look like you belong here.”
I want to say thanks, but what comes out is a nervous laugh. “I doubt that, but let’s go.”
Sophia opens the door, and as we step into the hallway, she glances back at me with a smile that’s both friendly and mysterious.
“You’ll fit right in, Daisy. I promise. Mr. McCarren will see to it.”
I let her lead the way, a little bit flustered from the tea, and the sense that the rules here are just different enough to be dangerous.
And for the first time since waking up, I don’t feel completely powerless.
The elevator down from the suite is lined with ornate wood paneling, and a mirror. Is that really me? The woman with the spun gold hair and shocked blue eyes? I try not to look at myself, but Sophia notices my unease.
“You okay?” she whispers, like we’re sharing a secret.
“I think so,” I say. “I’m just not used to places like this.”
She presses the button marked SPA in all-caps and winks. “You will be.”