Supper Clubs & Showdowns
Chapter forty
Marlow
The Supper Club is high-end, members only, and the kind of discreet that costs an annual salary. Since my father has been a card-carrying member since I was a teenager, I’m able to get in on his name whenever I want.
The main floor looks like a designer lounge—sleek bar with crystal decanters, a velvet-roped VIP, a low stage for performances (music during the week, other types on weekends), and beautiful staff weaving through with trays of complimentary drinks.
If you didn’t know better, you’d think you’d wandered into a very expensive hotel bar.
Five minutes later, Tatum and Eslin exit the locker corridor in black leggings, sports bras, and sneakers—hair up, earrings off, ready to square up. I was already dressed for a fight so now we look coordinated.
“Should we ask someone if they’ve seen him?” Tatum asks, her voice a little too eager.
I shake my head. “No. I prefer the element of surprise.”
We pile into the elevator, the air between us thick with adrenaline and simmering anger.
My pulse drums in my ears, but what steadies me—what fuels me—is the presence of my Stand-Ins at my side.
No hesitation. No questions. Just loyalty.
They’re ready to go to war for me on little more than my word and a phone ping.
My phone glows in my hand, Declan’s little blue dot pulsing like a beacon. I can feel my pulse syncing with every ding. Second floor. Third. Fourth. Each chime might as well be the strike of a war drum.
The doors glide open and for a second I forget how to breathe.
The fourth floor doesn’t look like the den of debauchery I had conjured in my head at all.
This place looks like money. Quiet, understated, luxury hotel money.
Muted cream carpet underfoot, gilded numbers glowing softly on each door, lighting low, designed to soothe or seduce.
The scent of something expensive lingers in the air, faint sandalwood layered with the sweetness of champagne.
Some suites are shut tight, giving nothing away.
Others have smoked-glass windows with half-drawn curtains, offering quick flashes of silhouettes and shadows moving inside.
A pair of red heels abandoned outside one door, a man’s jacket draped neatly over a brass handle at another.
Every detail feels like proof of what I came here dreading.
My husband is here with another woman. And I’m going to murder is manhood with a machete.
The bass from the main floor has faded to a dull hum, replaced by this heavy silence that feels too knowing, too polished. Like the walls themselves are in on the secrets being kept here.
My phone buzzes, hard and insistent in my palm. I glance down and the dot pulses again—looks like he’s right next door.
“Bastard,” I whisper, the word ripping out of me before I can stop it.
We gather outside the door, whisper-arguing strategy.
“Bang on it like the angry wife and yank that hoe off your man,” Tatum votes.
“Or, Eslin interjects calmly, “play it cool. Get proof, then decide your response.”
Then she leans in and places a hand on my shoulder. “How are you feeling?” she asks me, gently.
“I don’t need therapy shit right now, Es. I need to punch something.”
“Okay, Mayweather. Calm down,” she mutters. “I’m asking because if you’re hurt, don’t let that decide your reaction. You could say or do something you don’t mean. You honestly don’t know what he’s doing here.”
“It’s a sex club,” I deadpan. “There are only a few things other than sex he’d be doing here.”
“Exactly,” Tatum says, cracking her knuckles.
I decide I’ve had it. Enough waiting. Enough overthinking. Enough wondering what fresh humiliation is waiting for me behind this door.
“You know what? Fuck it.”
My fist connects with the wood in a furious rhythm. Each pound louder than the last. “Declan! Bring your lying, sleazy, cheating ass out here right now!” My voice ricochets down the corridor, sharp enough to draw curious glances from the cracked-open door across the hall.
“Old, tattooed, fine ass!” Tatum suddenly hollers beside me like a hype-woman with no filter. Or good comebacks.
Both me and Eslin whip our heads toward her, jaws slack.
Tatum blinks, hands on her hips. “What? Sorry. I’ve never been good at trash talk. That was the first thing that came to mind.”
Eslin groans and drags a hand down her face. “Lord, help us.”
Before I can snap back, the lock clicks. The door creaks open.
I brace myself for a half-dressed woman stumbling out. For Declan’s guilty face. For a scene that’ll ruin me.
But what greets me instead?
Not moans. Not naked limbs.
But a freaking study hall.
Books stacked like mini skyscrapers. Flashcards scattered across every surface. Whiteboards filled with equations and sticky notes like confetti explosions. And right in the center, Matteo, and Luca— looking up at me like I’ve just interrupted Sunday school.
“What are you doing here?” Declan demands, eyes flashing from me to my backup squad.
“What am I—what are you doing here?” I snap.
Matteo lifts a flash card slowly. “Uh… derivatives?”
Declan scrubs a hand over his jaw. “We’re helping Matteo prep for his college entrance exams.”
I blink hard, my brain trying to catch up with what my eyes are showing me. “At. A. Sex. Club.” I enunciate each word like I’m sounding them out for a toddler, because apparently that’s what this situation calls for.
Declan’s jaw tightens, like he’s bracing for a punch.
Luca, bless his idiot heart, pipes up with a shrug. “I’m a member and—”
I snap my glare to him so fast he nearly swallows his own tongue. “Not helping.”
Matteo, cheeks flushed and a stack of neon note cards clutched to his chest like they’re state secrets, blurts, “I don’t want anyone to know I’m studying for the exams.”
Tatum bites back a laugh, failing spectacularly. “Honestly? Kind of genius. If I had a math tutor in here, no one would ever interrupt.”
Eslin side-eyes her. “Girl, please. You can barely focus in a Starbucks. You would get nothing done here.”
“He’s embarrassed, Marlow. No one in his family has ever been to college and he didn’t want to say anything in case he fails.”
I drag my hands down my face, exhaling a long groan.
“So, let me get this straight. I stormed into The Supper Club—” I jab a finger at Declan, then point at Matteo and Luca—“ready to murder somebody because my husband’s phone was pinging here, only to find out you three degenerates have turned a luxury sex den into an SAT prep class? ”
The word hangs there like a fire alarm I can’t silence.
Luca’s eyes go wide, his jaw practically unhinging. Matteo actually drops his note cards, the neon stack fanning across the carpet in slow motion.
“Husband?” they echo, voices overlapping in one horrified gasp.
The room tilts. My stomach lurches.
Oh. Shit.
I wasn’t supposed to say that. No one outside of my friends and Declan was supposed to know that.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. My mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, scrambling for some clever spin. “I—uh—I meant—”
But nothing comes.
Declan’s arms fold across his chest. He doesn’t say a word, which somehow makes it worse. He’s just standing there, watching me scramble.
“Oh my God,” Matteo whispers, eyes flicking between me and Declan. “You guys are married?”
My hands start flailing, trying to shove the words back into the air. “I mean—it’s—it’s not like that, okay? It’s—complicated.”
“Complicated?” Luca repeats, his grin spreading. “Complicated how, boss?”
My pulse slams against my throat. The walls feel too close, the sticky notes mocking me with words like integrity and equation. All I can think about is if this gets out, if the team hears, if the press hears.
I glance at Declan, silently begging him to step in, to rescue me from the mess I just spilled all over the carpet. But his mouth just curls, infuriatingly calm and I can tell he enjoys watching me sweat.
Fucking bastard.
Before I can dig the hole any deeper, Eslin slides in like the seasoned therapist she is, eyes darting between Luca and Declan.
“Luca?” she says smoothly, though her teeth are clenched like she’s holding back a scream. “You and Declan have a lot more in common than you might think.”
Luca’s brow furrows. So does Declans. Confusion written all over their faces.
“I don’t understand.” Luca says.
Eslin’s smile sharpens, still strained. “I can’t break privilege. But…think about that thing you told me a few weeks ago. And the thing I talked you out of doing because of a certain…incident? In a certain city of sin?”
Luca’s mouth parts. His head tilts. You can practically see the gears grinding behind his eyes before the lightbulb clicks on. His gaze snaps to Declan, wide and scandalized.
“No way. No freaking way!”
“Luca—” I start, desperate, but it’s too late.
“You got married on SightUnseen in Vegas?!” he blurts, pointing at Declan.
Declan doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t deny it. He just leans against the door frame, arms still folded.
“So, let me get this straight,” Matteo says slowly. “You two are married—from some reality TV show—and didn’t tell anyone?”
Declan angles his head toward me, smirk tugging at his lips. “She wouldn’t let me. My wife seems to think being tied to me would ruin her reputation.”
I scoff, heat rushing to my cheeks. “Not now, Declan.”
He shrugs.
Luca suddenly throws his hands up. “At least you know who you married.” He pauses, squinting as if the thought itself is exhausting. “The only reason you haven’t heard about my wife is because I don’t exactly remember her name.”
That breaks us all. Even me, despite myself. Giggles burst out, laughter spilling across the room until my ribs ache.
“Marlow here gave me a fake name when we got married.”
“No way!” Luca says again and another round of laughter begins.
I sober quicker than the rest, cutting in before anyone can forget what’s at stake. “Alright, funny as this is, I need to know this stays in this room. At least about me and Declan.”
“At least until I remember my bloody bride’s name,” Luca adds, which earns him another round of chuckles.
Matteo looks around, his expression torn between wide-eyed awe and boyish mischief. “So you want me to keep quiet, huh? What, you want me to swear over a blood oath or something?”
Declan leans forward then, grin sharp but his tone suddenly heavier, carrying that quiet authority that makes grown men twice his size straighten up. “No blood oath needed. Just know if you say anything, I’ll make sure you won’t make it to study hall for a month.”
The threat hangs there. Dark. Serious.
And damn it all—scary yet sexy.
I look over at Declan, the fire in me cooling as I take in the sight of note cards and sticky notes plastered across the walls. My chest tightens, not with anger anymore, but with something closer to shame for assuming the worst.
I married a good man and I almost didn’t recognize it.
“So, studying. That’s all you were doing? No slutty skanks hanging all over your penis?”
Declan doesn’t snap back or bristle. He just pulls me in, grounding me instantly, and presses a steady kiss against my mouth. My shoulders sag with relief as he pulls back just enough to whisper, “No slutty skanks, Senora Agassi.”
His grin is soft, satisfied, and then he kisses the tip of my nose, soothing every jagged edge of my doubt.
Eslin throws up her hands. “So we’re standing here all greased up and ready to fight for nothing?”
Declan glances past me to my girls, still in their backup fight gear, then back at me. “Greased up?”
I shake my head, this time with a breathy laugh instead of rage. “Don’t even ask.”
“Noted,” he says. “Did you bring the town car or the SUV?” he asks.
“The SUV brought me. Why?”
He kisses me again, slower this time, and when he leans back, his grin is easier, lighter. “Well, wife, I kind of like you being jealous. Showing up with your own little hit squad, ready to tear this place apart just because you thought some woman was near me.”
His eyes soften, even as his voice dips rough. “Where I come from, that wins a man’s heart before anything else.”
My smile tilts, small but real. “Murder?”
“You’d kill for me.” His thumb brushes over my jaw, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’d die for you. We fit, Americana.”
He’s right.
This man pulls things out of me I didn’t even know I was capable of feeling.
Fire and fury I can’t always control. Rage, sharp enough to make me storm a sex club with my ride-or-die girls in tow.
Jealousy that burns hotter than anything I’ve ever known, all because the idea of losing him makes my chest ache.
He makes me crazy, reckless, ready to commit actual felonies—and somehow he does it while being the sweetest, most tender man I’ve ever let near my heart.
I don’t recognize this version of myself, but standing here in his arms, I don’t hate her either. Because the truth is, I would kill for him. Just as easily as I know he’d bleed for me.
We’re fire and gasoline. Dangerous. Addictive. Impossible to put out.
We fit.
Behind me, Tatum groans. “Aww! How sweet,” she drawls sarcastically. “Now that the lovebirds are back together, Eslin and I will be going back downstairs to change into our hoe attire and let some rich men order us expensive drinks.”
Declan just smirks, not looking away from me. “That’s fine,” he says easily.
“Because I’m taking my wife home.” Then he leans down, lips brushing the shell of my ear, voice a promise meant only for me. “And I plan to feast on her all night long. She’s the only supper club I’ll ever care to be a member of.”