Chapter 1
GRACE
SIX MONTHS EARLIER
The rejection letter weighs down my pocket like a brick. I excitedly grabbed it from the mailbox on my way out of the apartment, waiting until I found a seat on the subway to open it.
This is the one, I told myself, reciting the positive words that Kacey, my roommate, has engrained into my brain. She's been on a positive thinking journey that she's dragged me into.
And then I opened the letter to read the same words I've read what feels like a thousand times now.
We regret to inform you…
I didn't need to continue. Another agent who doesn't want to represent me. At this point, I'm afraid there are no agents left in New York City, and if I don’t get one soon, I’m not sure I’ll be able to live here for much longer.
The only bright side is, if I get through my shift tonight without getting fired, I can make this month's rent.
Barely.
My heart thuds in my ears as I walk briskly into the staff locker room at Haven, trying not to draw more attention to myself by running. I find Kacey leaning against my locker, waiting for me, as if she knew I'd be running late again.
She's an educator here at Haven, a sex club for New York City's elite. She's also been my best friend and roommate since we were freshmen in college. Flipping her purple ombre hair over her shoulder, she reaches for my bag as I shrug my winter coat from my shoulders.
"Jesus. What do you have in here?" She groans as she lifts the bag and attempts to stuff it into my locker.
"Books." The idea of leaving my house without a paperback and my Kindle makes me twitchy. What if I finish the paperback, and then I’m stuck on the subway with nothing to read?
What would I do then? I shudder at the idea before taking the bag from her and giving it an extra shove to force it into the metal cage.
Kacey rolls her eyes as I finally get the bag inside before taking my coat and barely fitting it on top. "Candace is on a warpath tonight," she says, handing me her tube of red lipstick. "You need to get out there and not give her a reason to fire you."
"Ugh," I groan, my stomach coiling. Of course she is.
Ever since Kacey talked Candace into hiring me, the woman has been plotting how to get rid of me.
Bringing me on as a waitress was nothing more than a favor to my best friend, and now that I've worked here for a few months, the woman has decided that she doesn't like me.
I take the lipstick, swiping the color over my lips, and then brushing my fingers through my hair while Kacey pulls out a pair of black heels for me to borrow.
"Being late doesn't help." She's not being cruel, just honest. Something I've always loved about my best friend. But right now? Her honesty feels like a punch to the gut.
Part of the reason Candace hates me is because I'm always late.
I don't do it on purpose. Tonight, I was moping back at our apartment after I calculated the bills, rent, and student loan payments that are all due, only to look at my bank account and realize the numbers are too far apart, and not in a good way.
I need $312 dollars by Friday if I want to avoid late fees.
And then the rejection letter…
"The subway doesn't help."
She chuckles at that. The New York City subway is my personal nightmare. But buying a car and trying to drive to work might actually be worse.
I know she's just trying to help me. It's all she's done for the past eight months. We graduated from NYU in the spring; me with a degree in creative writing and Kacey with one in psychology. Her specialty? Sex.
She was a member of a dungeon all throughout college.
Teaching BDSM 101 classes and mentoring women new to the lifestyle.
And when she wasn't at the dungeon or in classes, she was filming videos for her social media to educate women.
With her degree, she planned to be a sex therapist until one of the owners of Haven reached out to her with a job offer.
Director of Client Experience. Which is a fancy way of saying kink educator and professional BDSM practitioner.
It's honestly the perfect job for her. And she's been glowing since the day she started.
Me, on the other hand, I've done nothing but fail since the day we donned those caps and gowns.
"Stop feeling sad for yourself," she scolds me, as if it's obvious from the look on my face that I'm in a self-depreciating mood again. "Everything’s going to work out for you, Gracie. You just need to get up and take life by the balls."
Kacey's been holding me together for the last eight months, sitting with me as I've drained my savings account and watched my financial runway disappear. I was supposed to be a writer, and I thought I’d be published by now.
Becoming an author living in New York City is the dream I've had since I was a little girl who learned to write in full sentences.
I've been crafting stories for as long as I can remember.
That younger version of me thought I'd be a New York Times bestseller.
And instead, I'm a broke postgrad with a mountain of student loans, an unfinished manuscript, and a waitressing job at a sex club.
Not to mention, I'm so unhirable that my best friend had to get me this job. If it wasn't for Kacey, I'd be back home, lying on my childhood bed in the small Michigan town where I grew up.
I inhale a deep breath. "You're right," I tell her, smiling at her BFF advice. "Everything's gonna be okay."
Fake it till you make it, right?
"Now get out there." She slaps my ass, making me yelp as I head out to the floor.
The bass hums through the floorboards as I push open the heavy velvet curtain into Haven's main lounge.
Glittering strands of silver and gold cascade from the exposed beams, catching the warm amber lights and scattering sparkles across the brick walls.
Reclaimed wooden tables gleam beneath sheer black cloths edged in metallic fringe, holding flutes of bubbling champagne.
A countdown clock projects onto the far wall in an elegant script: Two Hours Until Midnight.
The club is never full, given that its exclusivity limits the number of memberships. But tonight, it seems like every single member is here for the New Year’s Eve party.
“Right on time.” Candace looks up from her watch to greet me. “Section 2. We have a VIP at Table 12. Don't screw this up."
Truly, every member at Haven is a VIP, but Candace reserves the term for the elitist of the elite.
Those with net worths so high I can't even fathom the number.
I'm already anxious about serving senators, billionaires, and mafia bosses alike, but when there's a Candace-proclaimed VIP, my nerves dial up a notch.
If Candace thinks they're important, the last thing I want to do is get myself fired for not appeasing some rich asshole.
I know from Kacey that Haven is owned by a billionaire's kid with a trust fund so deep he'll never see the bottom. Something about that thought rattles my stomach. What would it be like to never have to worry about money?
If I had a billion dollars, I’d never work again. I’d hide behind my laptop and write, but for fun, taking all the pressure off my art.
I silence the thoughts and refocus on the present. With a sigh, I muster up some fake courage and walk shakily on my borrowed high heels.
I try my best to ignore the displays of sex surrounding me. That's what people come here for, after all. They want the ability to practice their kinks in an open and judgement free environment.
My first day on the job, I couldn't help but stare, trying to make sense of the things I was seeing.
A woman with a collar around her neck being walked around on a leash.
Another, completely naked, kneeling at the feet of a man.
And a man with some sort of cage locked onto his cock.
That incident promptly got me reprimanded about not gawking at the members.
This job pays well because discretion costs extra, and the members value their privacy above all else. If I can manage to avoid pissing off Candace any further, I'll be able to cover all my bills. And that's more important than trying to figure out whatever is happening here.
At table twelve, I find a stunningly attractive man sitting with his back ramrod straight and one hand resting on the tabletop while the other holds his phone.
Everything about him screams precision, from the way his chestnut hair is slicked back without a strand out of place to the sharp lines of his tailored suit jacket hanging perfectly on his broad shoulders.
His fingers move across his phone screen with the same controlled efficiency that seems to radiate from every part of him. The light catches his cufflinks as he types, little sparks that match the expensive watch wrapped around his wrist. Everything about him exudes wealth.
Even seated, I can tell he's tall. His legs are crossed at the ankles under the table, dress pants hugging his thighs. The shine on his leather shoes could blind someone momentarily.
He hasn't noticed me yet, too absorbed in whatever business crisis demands his attention at—I glance at the clock—10:07 on New Year’s Eve.
His jaw is clean-shaven and sharp enough to cut glass, and when he shifts slightly, I catch a whiff of something expensive.
A mixture of something woodsy and spicy, but there’s a hint of the ocean.
"Good evening." My voice comes out higher than I intended. "Can I get you something to drink?"
He looks up from his phone, and I'm hit with the full force of his attention.
Intense steel-gray eyes sweep over me. There's something predatory in his gaze that makes my pulse skip.
Waitresses aren't off limits to the club members, though Candace doesn't exactly encourage it.
The free membership that comes with working here blurs the lines, and most waitresses are happy to play when they're not on the clock.
Not me. I've never engaged in this kind of sex, and I'd like to keep it that way.
"Macallan 25. Neat." His voice is smooth, controlled. He sounds like someone who’s used to being obeyed.
I nod quickly, trying not to let my face show that I have no idea what that costs or if we even carry it. "I'll check with the bar."
"You'll find it."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Of course. Right away."
Returning to his phone, he dismisses me without another word. I stand there for a heartbeat too long, waiting for something more, before my brain kicks in, and I rush toward the bar.
Danny, the bartender, doesn’t blink when I ask for the Macallan. Just unlocks the backbar cage and measures a careful pour into a fancy glass before setting it on a small tray.
My palms are already sweating as I weave between tables, hyper-aware of every step. The drink trembles on my tray.
Don't spill it. Don't spill it. Do not spill this man's probably-hundred-dollar whiskey.
A couple at Table 7 laughs loudly, the woman's hand trailing down her companion's chest. I sidestep their intimate moment, my ankle wobbling once again and making my breath catch.
Almost there.
The man hasn't looked up from his phone, shoulders rigid beneath his designer suit jacket. Everything about him radiates control, from his perfect posture to the way he holds his head.
Relief floods through me as I take the final steps toward his table. Made it. No disasters. Maybe I can actually—
My heel catches on something.
Time tilts with the crystal class. Amber liquid arcs in a perfect, devastating ribbon and bursts across his white shirt while I watch in horror, unable to stop it.
Whiskey drips from his collar onto his lap, darkening his charcoal suit pants. A few drops hit his phone screen.
He doesn’t curse. He doesn’t move. He just looks at me like I’m a problem he's deciding how to solve.
The entire club seems to hold its breath. Conversations pause. Even the bass line feels muted.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his gray eyes to meet mine.