Chapter 5
Being at the club on another busy Friday makes Lila realize just how much she hates her job.
She wishes she didn’t have to work here.
But if she were to quit, then what? She had expected the cost of living to be high in a big city before moving, but she had severely underestimated the reality of it.
Despite holding a Bachelor of Fine Arts, she hasn’t found many opportunities since graduating, beyond a few commissioned murals for mom-and-pop shops in her hometown and the occasional painting request from random people.
Instead, to earn her keep, she had toiled in her grandmother’s bakery, saving little by little until she finally felt ready to leave.
She hated every moment there, constantly yearning for big city lights.
Now, after paying her share of the rent again, a nagging doubt sits at the edge of her mind, whispering that maybe moving here hadn’t been the right choice.
It’s the kind of thought that tempts her to go back home, where painting didn’t have to compete with the stress of scraping together money for every little thing. Even the laundry costs more than she’s willing to accept, each pound adding up far too quickly.
She definitely misses having a washer and dryer, even if the ones back home were old, run-down, and required a good kick—or a firm threat of one—to start.
She groans, thinking about the pile of clothes and bedding she’s been putting off washing. She’ll have to worry about that later. Right now, she has to clock in.
By the time she reaches the top of the stairs, the club’s noise feels unbearable. Every night, like clockwork, the debauched scene descends further into chaos as the hours pass, patrons growing rowdier with every drink or illicit substance they consume.
Tony’s capriciousness has worsened, leaving the staff feeling as though they’re constantly tiptoeing around him. According to Claire, his plug disappeared, and he’s been on edge ever since, desperately trying to find a new dealer for his coke addiction.
Walking toward the bar to clock in, Lila is greeted by a scowling Tony working behind it.
“Lila,” he shouts. “Hurry up and come here.”
She quickens her pace, nervously tucking a stray lock of hair back into her loose ponytail. The prospect of speaking to him always makes her heart race with anxiety, leaving her completely drained afterward.
“Yes?” she asks.
“There’s someone who wants to meet with you,” Tony says sharply.
Turning to follow his gaze, she spots an intimidating, burly figure clad in a tight-fitting white dress shirt and dark slacks, perched at the bar just a few feet away.
“Hi. How can I help you?”
“Not him,” Tony snaps, clearly annoyed. “He’ll take you upstairs. The person who wants to meet with you is upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” she repeats. “There’s a third floor?”
“Yes, upstairs. The third floor,” Tony says again in a mocking tone. Lila fights the urge to scowl. “Just follow him.”
Her cautious steps bring her closer to the stranger, though she can’t shake the feeling of Tony’s glare burning into her back.
The man looks like a mountain carved out of pure muscle, towering over even Tony, who is already sizable.
With a single, swift nod to Tony, he rises from his barstool and walks off without a word.
Lila follows promptly, but not before glancing back at her manager, who offers only a stony glare. No guidance. No reassurance.
She exhales, steadying herself, then hurries after the mysterious man, nerves prickling with unease.
After stowing her belongings in her assigned locker, she steps out of the staff changing room and catches up to him. As they pass through the kitchen, Lila watches her footing carefully, wary of slipping on the slick floor.
As a server at The Velvet Stag, her job is to maintain a sexy appearance, which means wearing heels no shorter than three inches.
Because of that, she’s never had to venture into the kitchen or deal with slippery puddles.
Food runners usually handle the orders, bringing them to the bar for her to pick up and deliver to guests.
She passes several unfamiliar kitchen staff members who regard her with knowing smirks, making her stomach churn and knot.
At the very back of the kitchen, the man retrieves a keycard from his pocket and unlocks a metal door, revealing a darkened interior. The knot in her stomach tightens as he holds the door open, silently waiting for her to step forward into the unknown.
“Who wants to meet me?” she asks hesitantly, her voice shaky and pitched slightly higher than usual.
His only response is to deepen his scowl as he stares daggers at her.
With unexpected agility for his bulky frame, he seizes her wrist and forcefully pulls her inside. She stumbles forward, barely managing to keep her balance as the door closes behind them with a single, resounding click. The sound echoes through the darkness.
“Don’t manhandle me, asshole,” she snaps. “I can fucking walk.”
She realizes then that she can no longer hear the busy kitchen. The silence unsettles her.
Releasing her wrist, he nods toward a dimly lit staircase, wordlessly signaling the way forward.
She swallows hard before starting her ascent ahead of him. Though she’s being forced into an unknown place, the only thing keeping her moving is the knowledge that she’s still at work. What could really happen to her in a club with hundreds of people inside?
Despite her attempts to rationalize it, her gut screams at her to turn around and run back downstairs.
The clatter of his heavy steps on the metal staircase heightens her unease, prompting her to quicken her pace, as if putting distance between them might offer some measure of safety.
Reaching the top, she hurries forward and pushes open another metal door, bursting into an unexpectedly bright hallway.
Elegant sconces line the cream-colored walls, casting a soft, warm glow—a sharp contrast to the cold, heavy footsteps behind her. Beneath her feet, a deep red carpet patterned with large florals muffles their steps.
Haunting surrealist portraits depicting feminine, faceless, disturbingly elegant figures loom between the sconces, drawing her gaze and deepening the unease curling in her chest.
They pass several intricately designed doors, each fitted with brass handles and ornate keycard readers, until they reach the final door at the far end of the hallway.
A thin line of light spills from beneath the heavy wooden door, signaling that someone is inside.
Someone who is waiting for her.
The man beside her retrieves the same keycard and holds it to the reader. A green light flashes, and the door unlocks with a soft clack.
“After you,” he says, his voice intimidatingly deep, sending unpleasant chills down her spine.
“No,” she says softly, shaking her head. “I’m not going in there.”
“I’ll be out here,” he replies, as if that should be enough to reassure her.
Against her better judgment, she closes her fingers around the brass handle, draws a steadying breath, and steps inside. She tells herself she’s being silly, that she has no reason to be afraid. She’s still at work.
Inside, she’s stunned to find a space that resembles a luxurious hotel suite. A large king-sized bed dominates the room, its headboard tufted in deep red velvet.
The man from last weekend is perched on the edge of the bed, feet on the ground, legs spread apart as he leans forward, a glass of red wine in hand.
“Good evening, Ms. Thorne.”
Nausea sweeps over her as she realizes she never disclosed her last name to him. Frozen in place, she stays silent.
Tony—that lecherous rat.
He must have revealed her name to this stranger. The thought alone enrages her.
Instead of traditional windows, a large mirror adorns one wall of the room, emitting a soft, radiant light from its edges.
She watches cautiously as he manipulates a small remote control in one hand, each click causing a subtle shift in the lighting.
When he finally settles on a setting, the room is bathed in warm sunset hues.
Soft pinks and oranges wash over the walls, creating a serene, inviting atmosphere that cloaks the space in a tranquil glow.
“This is pretty neat,” he muses, sounding pleased, before downing the last of his wine.
“What is it you wanted to talk to me about?” she asks.
“I’ve been thinking about you, Lila.”
Images flash through his mind as he looks at her, the most persistent one showing her wrists bound with red rope, legs spread wide for him. Now, in proper lighting instead of the dark corridor or the glowing chaos of the club, she looks even better in person than she does in his memory.
“I want to fuck you,” he confesses.
The crude words shock her.
After a few seconds spent collecting herself, she scoffs and turns on her heels, intent on leaving. She plans to march downstairs and finally give Tony a piece of her mind.
Screw this fucking job. Who the hell does he think he is, telling strangers my full fucking name?
“Five hundred.”
She turns around as he sets the empty wineglass down on the carpet. “What?”
“Can we fuck for five hundred?” he asks calmly, loosening his tie and removing it before laying it carefully beside his jacket on the bed. His eyes never leave her, their intensity making her feel exposed and deeply uneasy.
“Are you insane?” she blurts out, her voice tinged with a shrillness that surprises even her.
She watches, fear mixing with disbelief, as he unbuttons his sleeves, his movements deliberate and unhurried.
“Six hundred?” he continues, undoing a couple of buttons at the top of his shirt with one hand. “A thousand?”
“Stop calling out numbers!” she cries, taking a cautious step back toward the door, her eyes never leaving the formidable man sitting on the bed. His unnervingly calm demeanor makes the moment feel surreal.
“Five thousand.”
“You’re really disgusting,” she snaps, her voice trembling.
“How about ten thousand, then? That’s fine with me.”