Chapter 2
two
. . .
I stand in front of my bathroom mirror examining the black dress I've owned since undergrad—my one "nice" outfit, saved for job interviews and funerals.
It hugs my curves in a way that might have been flattering three years and fifteen pounds ago.
Now it just looks desperate. Fitting, I suppose, since desperate is exactly what I am.
My hair refuses to cooperate, falling in limp waves around my shoulders despite my best efforts with my ancient curling iron.
I've attempted makeup, too—drugstore mascara and a lipstick Jessie left here months ago.
The overall effect is like watching a child play dress-up in her mother's clothes. Not quite right. Not quite enough.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jessie:
Outside. Hurry up, we're already late!!
I grab my only purse—a small clutch with a broken clasp—and take one last look at my apartment. The eviction notice still sits on the coffee table, a yellow reminder of what's at stake. Whatever Jessie has planned, it has to be better than homelessness. Right?
When I step outside, Jessie is leaning against a sleek black car that definitely isn't hers. She whistles low when she sees me.
"Well, you tried," she says, giving me a critical once-over.
She looks like she's stepped out of a magazine in her red slip dress and stilettos that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
Her dark hair is swept into an elegant updo, and diamonds glitter at her ears and throat.
"We'll have to work with what we've got. "
"Hello to you too," I mutter, sliding into the passenger seat. "Whose car is this?"
"Marcus's." She slips into the driver's side. "He's in Dubai this week."
Marcus is Jessie's latest boyfriend—a hedge fund something-or-other who travels constantly and showers her with gifts in his absence. I've met him exactly once, and he spent the entire dinner on his phone.
"So are you going to tell me where we're going?" I ask as she pulls away from the curb.
"The Obsidian." She says it like I should recognize the name. When I don't respond, she sighs dramatically. "God, Del, do you live under a rock? It's only the most exclusive club in the city. Members only, by invitation, and it costs like fifty grand just to apply."
My stomach sinks. "And we're going there... why?"
Jessie flashes me a sly smile. "Because it's where rich, powerful men go to find... companionship."
The way she says "companionship" makes my skin crawl. "You're taking me to what, a high-end brothel?"
"Don't be so provincial." She rolls her eyes. "The Obsidian is a social club for the elite. Yes, arrangements happen there, but it's all very discreet, very... mutually beneficial."
"Arrangements," I repeat flatly. "You mean like prostitution."
"I mean like dating with perks." She shoots me an annoyed glance. "Look, these are men who spend their days making billion-dollar decisions. They don't have time for traditional relationships, but they want companionship, attention. In return, they take care of you."
"Take care of you," I echo. "Financially."
"Yes, financially! Jesus, Del, don't act like you're above it. I saw your face when I mentioned money yesterday." She pauses at a red light and turns to me. "You're drowning, and I'm throwing you a life raft. You can either grab it or drown with your precious dignity intact."
The light turns green, and we drive in silence for a moment. My thoughts race, trying to rationalize what I'm considering. It's not prostitution, I tell myself. It's just... companionship. Conversation. Maybe a few dates.
The lie tastes bitter even in my own mind.
"How much?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
Jessie smiles, knowing she's won. "Depends on the man and the arrangement. But Marcus's friend gives me a monthly allowance of fifteen thousand. Plus gifts."
Fifteen thousand dollars a month. Six months of that would pay off my student loans. One month would cover tuition and rent with money left over. The number makes me dizzy.
"I'm not sleeping with anyone," I say firmly.
"That's between you and whoever you connect with," Jessie says with a shrug. "But honestly, Del, these men are gorgeous, powerful, and they know how to please a woman. It's hardly a hardship."
I stare out the window as we leave my neighborhood behind and head downtown.
Tall buildings with glass facades reflect the night sky, gleaming with wealth and possibility.
People stroll along the sidewalks in clothes that cost more than my entire wardrobe, laughing and entering restaurants where a single meal would cover my groceries for a week.
"What if no one wants me?" I ask quietly, voicing my deepest fear. "I'm hardly club material."
Jessie reaches over and squeezes my hand. "You're beautiful, Del. You're smart and interesting and real. Trust me, that's rarer than you think in these circles."
We pull up to a nondescript building with no signage, just a black door and a suit-clad doorman. Jessie hands the car keys to a valet who appears out of nowhere, and suddenly my heart is pounding so hard I can barely breathe.
"I can't do this," I whisper.
"Yes, you can," Jessie says firmly. "You need money. They have money. It's a business transaction, that's all."
A business transaction. I think of my eviction notice, my negative bank balance, the bursar's cold voice informing me I'll be withdrawn from school. I think of my parents' photo and how desperately they wanted me to get my degree. Sometimes survival requires compromise.
I follow Jessie to the door where the doorman nods to her in recognition.
"Good evening, Ms. Cabrera. Marcus informed us you'd be joining tonight."
"I brought a friend," Jessie says, gesturing to me. "Delilah Monroe."
The doorman's eyes scan me, and I feel like a counterfeit bill being examined for authenticity. After a moment, he nods. "Very well. Welcome to The Obsidian, Ms. Monroe."
The door opens to reveal a dimly lit hallway with black marble floors that seems to absorb the light rather than reflect it. The walls are lined with backlit art pieces—abstract forms that might be bodies intertwined or might just be shapes, depending on how you look at them.
At the end of the hall, another door opens to the club proper, and I have to stop myself from gasping.
The space is massive, with soaring ceilings and a central bar made of what appears to be actual obsidian stone, polished to a mirror shine.
Around the perimeter, private booths with plush velvet seating offer intimate spaces for conversation.
The lighting is subtle and flattering, casting everyone in a golden glow that makes even the oldest patrons look vibrant.
"Close your mouth," Jessie whispers, nudging me. "You look like a tourist."
I snap my jaw shut and try to adopt her confident stance as she leads me to the bar. The bartender, impossibly handsome in a tailored waistcoat, smiles at Jessie.
"The usual, Ms. Cabrera?"
"Two, please," she says, indicating me. "My friend needs to relax."
He returns moments later with two martini glasses filled with clear liquid. I take a sip and nearly cough at the strength of it. Vodka, barely tempered with vermouth, and exorbitantly expensive from the taste.
"Now," Jessie says, turning to survey the room, "let's find you a benefactor."
The word makes me cringe, but I follow her gaze around the club.
The patrons are predominantly men in their forties and fifties, all impeccably dressed in suits that probably cost more than my tuition.
They exude confidence and power in a way that makes the air feel charged.
Scattered among them are women—young, beautiful, and attentive.
They laugh at jokes, touch arms lightly, lean in to whisper in ears.
"See that man over there?" Jessie nods toward a silver-haired gentleman seated alone in a booth.
"That's Judge Harrington. He likes intellectual conversation about politics and art.
He pays for his companion's apartment, wardrobe, and travel.
In return, she accompanies him to events and spends weekends at his Hamptons house. "
"And sleeps with him," I add flatly.
Jessie shrugs. "She's been with him for two years. I think she genuinely likes him."
She continues her inventory of the room, pointing out a tech CEO who "likes to be dominated, if you can believe it" and a real estate mogul who "only dates ballerinas, so not for you."
I feel increasingly ill, the vodka sitting heavy in my stomach. These men look at the women not as people but as acquisitions. And now I'm considering making myself one of them.
"I need the restroom," I mutter, setting down my barely-touched drink.
The women's restroom is as opulent as the rest of the club, with individual vanity stations and a lounge area with velvet chaises. Two women stand at the mirrors, touching up already-perfect makeup. They glance at me with thinly veiled disdain.
"New girl?" one asks the other, not bothering to lower her voice.
"Obviously," the second replies. "Look at that dress. Clearance rack at best."
I lock myself in a stall and lean against the door, breathing deeply. What am I doing here? This isn't me. I'm not the kind of person who sells herself, no matter how "elite" the packaging.
But then I think of my tiny apartment, the eviction notice, the administrative withdrawal from school. I think of all the years of work, all my parents' hopes, all my own dreams—all of it slipping away because of money. Just money.
When I emerge from the stall, the women are gone. I wash my hands and stare at my reflection in the mirror. The lighting is forgiving, but I still look out of place—a sparrow among peacocks.
"Just once," I tell my reflection. "Just to get back on my feet."
I return to the bar to find Jessie chatting with a man whose watch probably costs more than everything I own. She waves me over enthusiastically.
"Del! Come meet Richard. He's in pharmaceuticals."
Richard eyes me with the clinical assessment of someone inspecting merchandise. I feel my resolve crumbling.
"Actually," I start, ready to make my excuses and leave, when a disturbance at the entrance catches everyone's attention.
The crowd parts like the Red Sea, conversations pausing mid-sentence.
A man has entered—tall and imposing in a perfectly tailored black suit.
Even from across the room, I can feel the authority radiating from him.
His dark hair is touched with silver at the temples, and his sharp features could cut glass.
"Who is that?" I ask, unable to look away.
Jessie follows my gaze and inhales sharply. "That's Roman Wolfe. CEO of Wolfe Enterprises." She grips my arm tightly. "Del, he never comes here. He owns half the city but he's practically a recluse."
"Why is everyone acting like the principal just walked in?"
"Because he's dangerous," she whispers. "They say he destroyed a rival company because its CEO outbid him on a painting he wanted. The man has no mercy in business or pleasure."
As if he can hear us, Roman Wolfe's head turns in our direction. Even from across the room, I can feel the weight of his gaze—cold, calculating, predatory.
And fixed directly on me.