8. Elyse
Elyse
If you strip away the reams of paperwork with their intimidating small print, then the brief for tonight is actually pretty simple.
Let Sinclair Voss do whatever he likes to my body.
And don’t breathe a single word about it to anyone.
The instructions he’s left for me in the private dressing area are terrifying and reassuring in equal measure: terrifying because they make the unthinkable thing I’m about to do more real, and reassuring because when I’m this far out of my depth, I’ll take all the guidance I can get.
On the second floor of Alchemy lie the private rooms, hidden behind closed doors and lining all four sides of the mezzanine-level balcony that overlooks the main bar downstairs.
Something I didn’t understand until this evening is that some of our guests don’t access these rooms via the main staircase.
Some never even set foot on the main floor.
Instead, they take a discreet elevator straight up here from the parking garage in the basement to a hidden passageway that sits behind the most westerly row of these rooms. And, when you access each one from the back, you actually go through a kind of antechamber that works as a dressing—or undressing—area.
This is where Katrin has guided me to now, on my night off.
I met her in the parking garage at her request, and she took me up here with a stern reminder that I can walk away at any time during tonight’s, er, proceedings.
I’m alone now, and I take another look at the typed sheet of instructions that’s been left on the vanity for me. It’s from him and it’s pretty brief:
Take off all your clothes and shoes and put on the pieces that have been left for you.
Wait for me in here. I will come through at nine sharp.
SV
What struck me when Sylvie and I did our rewatch of Indecent Proposal the other night was how robotic Diana looked when she was getting ready for her “date” on Gage’s yacht. Like she was dressing for her own execution.
I feel exactly the same.
At least her outfit covered everything up.
It’s now eight fifty-eight, and I might throw up from nerves.
Right now, all the money in the world seems too little in return for doing something this reckless.
I am standing here, wearing nothing but an ivory silk robe monogrammed with the Alchemy “A” and a very tiny, very expensive-looking black lace thong, and I’m staring at the closed door that leads through to whatever den of sin this guy has booked for the night, and I’m about to let him loose on me.
Behind closed doors. With only my brand-new safe word and Katrin’s assurance of threats delivered for armor.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Why on earth would I put myself in the hands of one of the most entitled guys in this city—a man who Pixie has literally told me is an animal?
Even making eye contact with him last week was excruciating, for some reason.
How the hell am I going to let him have sex with me?
It’s honestly the craziest shit I’ve ever heard.
Eight fifty-nine.
I stare at myself in the mirror. I’ve made a ton of effort with my makeup while attempting to keep it natural-looking.
Just because I’m acting like a hooker tonight doesn’t mean I need to look like one.
I’m sure that’s not what he would want, either.
He’s a classy guy—on the surface, at least. The women he’s photographed with in the press are beautiful.
My anxiety-driven googling of him this week has told me that much.
My dark hair hangs loose to just above my breasts.
I put in a deep conditioning treatment last night, and let’s say I’ve groomed the heck out of other places on my body, too.
No matter how much I don’t want to do this, I also don’t want him paying all that money and then finding me lacking.
Nine o’clock.
There’s a sharp rapping on the door behind me that makes me jump out of my skin.
For some reason, I expected him to materialize through the door in front of me, but that makes no sense.
Of course he will have come up the same way I did—through the secret elevator and along the hidden passage.
I guess guys like him don’t want their indiscretions broadcast, even in a club like this.
I spin around, sweat breaking out on my palms and along my forehead. “Come in?” I call like he’s taken me by surprise, which is so stupid. I tighten the cord of my robe for good measure, even if it’s about as protective as a porcupine on a life raft in this scenario.
The handle on the door starts to turn with a faint creak, and it honestly feels like I’m in one of those horror movies.
Time slows down. Even now, I can’t actually believe he’s here.
That this is happening. That in, like, five minutes, I’ll be naked and at the mercy of some dude I’ve only ever said a dozen words to.
And then the door is opening, and there he is.
My first thought is that I absolutely should not have spent so much time cyberstalking him this week, because it now feels like I’ve come face to face with an actual celebrity. Which I guess he is, but it doesn’t do my nerves any good.
My second thought is that he looks almost as stunned to see me in the flesh as I am to see him, which is weird. He gapes at me as if he can’t believe I’ve actually shown up. Fair, but I had ten thousand reasons not to run like I wanted to.
My third thought? Oh my God, he is so freaking hot.
I’m a model. Not a very successful one, but I’ve done shoots with plenty of insanely good-looking guys who have square jaws and full heads of hair and indecently symmetrical features—the kinds of guys the camera loves. But Sinclair Voss is in a whole other league.
I already knew that, obviously, and my Google spiral confirmed it, but now that he’s standing in front of me again, it really hits me.
He’s shockingly, indecently hot. Thick, almost-black hair that’s styled and raked messily off his face.
A perfect tan. But it’s his eyes that really grab the attention—a piercing pale blue—and they’re boring into me now.
His height, too. I’m barefoot, and it makes the height difference seem even more pronounced.
He’s the first of us to find his voice as he pushes the door shut behind him. “Elyse. Thank you so much for being here.”
My name sounds strangled on his lips. He seems just as awkward as he was last week at the bar when he asked me to play. I know for a fact that he’s very familiar with these rooms, so why he should find this uncomfortable is beyond me.
“Sinclair Voss. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He holds out his hand, and I take it. Again, oddly formal, but I don’t know what I expected. The manners on these rich dudes are so weird—they’ll pay you for sex but will shake your hand first, just like they learned at prep school.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say shyly. His hand is warm, his grip strong. He’s still staring down at me, his gaze flickering to the V of my robe before returning to my face. I sure as hell hope he’s planning on calling the shots here, because I’m clueless.
He releases my hand. “Would you like a glass of water before we go through?”
Go through. Shit. I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Tell me your safe word.”
“It’s, uh, raven?” Totally random, but Katrin told me to choose a word that spoke to me, and ravens are, like, harbingers of doom, right? It feels appropriate.
“Raven. Got it. You say it, I stop. Do you have any questions?” He says it impatiently, as if it’s a formality he’s hoping to move on from quickly.
I guess the clock is ticking. I calculated the other day that every single minute of this evening is costing him almost one hundred and sixty-seven dollars.
Is it too late to run? “No, sir.”
Oh, goodness, he likes that. He can’t hide the pleased gleam that flashes in his eye as I call him sir. So he likes his women deferential. Total shocker.
“Good.” He strides around me and opens the door that leads through to the room where we will get down to business, standing back so I can pass.
I snuck a peek at one of these private rooms on Sunday, just so I could see what I was getting myself into.
Katrin gave me an access card. They’re sparsely furnished but still lavish, with midnight-blue walls and beautiful wall sconces.
The room I saw contained a huge bed covered with silken black sheets and pillows and a large, lacquered cabinet off to one side containing “props.” Let’s just say I had a look inside and wished I hadn’t.
Every room is fitted with a two-way mirror that functions as a voyeur window from the balcony, as well as a microphone linking through to an old-school telephone receiver outside the room for watchers who want sound effects, too.
But, given that I specifically said no to anyone observing us at all, I’m confident that the velvet curtains will be drawn over the mirror-slash-window and the mic will be off.
I step into the room, my heart hammering—it seems my nervous system believes I’m facing an execution squad—and stop short.
It’s a lot bigger than the room I saw, but identically furnished. Bed, cabinet, curtains.
Except for one thing: the large item sitting in the middle of the floor space, terrifying in its brutal simplicity.
Is that… for me?