Chapter two
Violet
The black collar sits snug against my throat, but something feels off. In the mirror, I sweep my hair aside and find it twisted at the back. Adjusting it, I smooth it flat against my skin.
Better.
I tune out the commotion around me, the laughter and stories, the clinking of makeup brushes and hair straighteners as ordinary women transform into goddesses.
The dressing room at Eden is always like this before Le Jardin on a Saturday, when the real money is made.
When goddesses spend the night with their clients and make their fantasies come true.
It’s glamorous and wild, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
It’s more than a job for us. It’s a transformation, a performance.
For a few hours, we step into roles that blur the line between desire and reality.
Music pipes through the dressing room speakers, the usual endless loop of bubblegum pop. Ugh . . . Give me the heavy beats and elaborate guitar riffs of Pink Floyd any day. But after years at Eden, I’ve mastered the art of blocking out the soundtrack.
My focus is on my mouth, scanning the sharp edge of the deep red lipstick that contrasts with my pale skin for any sign of imperfection. Eden demands the illusion of effortless beauty. It’s anything but effortless; it takes hours to get ready.
I fluff out my long black hair, letting it fall over my shoulders. The diamond stud in my nose catches the light as I tilt my head, checking every angle of my makeup.
The clients at Eden often tell me I’m beautiful—some variation of “stunning” or “gorgeous.” But none of it sticks. No matter how much I’ve changed since I was a kid, all I see when I look in the mirror is a scrawny girl with bony shoulders and ears too big for her head.
Puffing out my cheeks, I exhale and straighten my spine. It’s almost time.
The heavy oak doors to the club swing open, and I step into the low-lit opulence of Eden. Black, gold, and crimson surround me. I breathe in Eden’s scent, completely addicted to it.
Moving through the club is second nature now, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet.
When I first started working here, the decadence overwhelmed me, along with the constant attention from patrons.
But now, it feels like home. The kind of home you carve out for yourself and learn to own.
Not the warm, cozy home I used to dream about.
Madame Anna, Hailee, and the other goddesses are my family. Although I’m probably the black sheep among them. Every family has one . . .
“Vi!” Hailee calls from behind the bar, a smile on her glossy lips. “Can you give me a hand before Le Jardin starts?”
“Sure.”
“Two whiskeys for the hotties in the back booth. Blue jeans.”
I grin. “Got it.”
The perks of working here.
Grabbing a tray, I place the crystal tumblers on it and weave through the club toward the back booth. It doesn’t take long to spot them—two guys in conversation, their worn jeans and sneakers a stark contrast to the tailored suits we usually see in here.
The blond one catches my eye. My gaze lingers a second too long before I drop my eyes to the floor, where they’re supposed to be. I keep walking, adding a little more sway to my hips.
“Fucking hell,” he whispers under his breath to his friend as I approach.
A smirk dances on my lips.
Gotcha. Hook, line, and sinker.
I lower myself gracefully to my knees, setting the tray on the table in front of them.
Blondie clears his throat, and my smirk widens.
“Is there anything else I can get you, gentlemen?”
“Your cute little ass on my lap, for starters.”
I rise from my knees and settle onto his lap, deliberately rolling my hips until I feel the hard length of his cock. His hands tighten at my hips to still them.
“So, what brings you to Eden tonight?”
“Gorgeous women, of course . . .” He leans in, breath skimming my ear. “You.”
His thumb traces a slow circle over my nipple through the thin black satin of my dress.
“Uh-uh, you know you can’t touch in here,” I admonish with a wink.
“Shame. What’ll it cost me to touch you outside of here?”
“Speak to Madame Anna or Hailee, they’ll arrange it.” I trail my fingers along his hairline at the back of his neck.
“Already counting down the seconds.” His eyes ooze desire.
I rock back against his hard length again to seal the deal.
A date outside of Eden is a lot of money, and I’m not going to pass up the opportunity.
It’s common for patrons to ask for dates beyond these four walls.
Often they need a plus-one for a work function, wedding, or party they don’t want to face alone.
I don’t blame them. Eden’s my only social life, and it’s work. I spend my days on my own, building my portfolio as Vega Wolfe. My nights at Eden give me the freedom to be selective with the commissions I take. I live a simple life, and Eden affords me the income to keep it that way.
The room’s tension shifts, snapping me out of my thoughts.
It’s subtle, but I notice it. Conversations thinning into murmurs, eyes darting.
Usually when that happens, someone famous has walked through the door.
I don’t bother looking. It happens all the time in here.
This is Eden, after all. The place where people come to disappear.
“Is that . . . Carter Ashford?” my guy says under his breath.
I still.
Then I slowly brush my hair over my shoulder and take a quick look.
Fucking hell. What’s he doing here?
The tour isn’t starting until the end of the month. He shouldn’t even be in the country. I do a quick scan for my brother, but it seems he’s alone. I knew I had fucked myself over yesterday by thinking things couldn’t get any worse. I just had to tempt the universe to keep flinging shit my way.
“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me for a moment. I’ll send another goddess over.” Rising from the guy’s lap, I squeeze his shoulder and look directly in his eyes. I drop my voice to a sultry purr. “I look forward to seeing you soon.” I blow him a kiss and head toward the staff door.
Time to get the fuck out of here.
Carter is by the bar, talking to our regular client and Hailee’s partner, Dameon. I move fast, but not fast enough to be noticed, and slip into the back.
***
By the time I speak to Hailee and ask to bail on Le Jardin, it’s been dark outside for a while, and the night is thankfully cooler.
I hate letting Hailee down and leaving her in an awkward position with no one to take my place. But Carter can’t see me—not at Eden. Of all places.
Outside, the streets are quiet. I hike up my backpack and tap Play on my go-to playlist. Metallica kicks in, drums pulsing through my earbuds, muffling the rest of the world.
I dip my chin and start the short walk home. The thud of my Doc Martens keeps time with the beat, but it’s eventually lost beneath the melody.
I love walking home at this hour, when Double Bay is nearly deserted. It’s peaceful—just me, the music, and the empty streets.
This neighborhood is about as far from my style as it gets.
It’s all sculpted hedges and sleek mansions with too many rooms and not enough soul.
Husbands in tailored suits, hiding affairs behind Bluetooth calls.
Trophy wives with perfect hair and Pilates-sculpted arms, sipping green juice and flirting with their gardeners but never learning their names.
Toddlers running across manicured lawns in ethically sourced organic cotton, chased by designer dogs bred to match the furniture.
But at night the pretentious facade peels back, leaving nothing but quiet, tree-lined streets—a hollow stage, emptied of its players.
Still, it’s close to work. And I’d bet my last paycheck it’s the safest suburb in Sydney. I’ve never been concerned about getting jumped on my way home. Plus, I’ve got my Swiss Army knife in my boot, and I’m not afraid to cut a bitch if need be. I might not win, but I’d definitely leave a mark.
The familiar silhouette of my apartment building comes into view, an aging art deco structure wedged between sleek McMansions.
It’s tiny and cramped. But it’s mine. I jimmy the key into the lock and kick my boots off the second I’m through the door.
Wiggling my sock-covered toes against the cool tiles, I toss my keys onto the counter as a yawn claws its way out of me.
It’s cozy in a mismatched, thrift-store way.
The couch is a hand-me-down from Jeanine, my foster mom.
Some of the dishes in the kitchen were hers, too, though I doubt she even noticed they were missing when I left.
By then, she barely noticed anything. Her boyfriends got more attention than I or my brother ever did.
But I don’t blame her. She did her part for humanity, I guess, taking in two kids who’d already lost their mother. Two strays looking for somewhere, anywhere, to land.
I collapse onto the couch, head sinking into the cushions. For a second, I let my eyes close, let myself drift toward that sweet slip into nothingness—
My body jerks awake, as though I’ve stepped off a cliff, heart pounding and lungs gasping for air.
Shit.
I hate when that happens. I read somewhere it’s a survival instinct, that if you fall asleep too fast, your brain panics and drags you back to consciousness. Who the fuck knows?
Groaning, I force myself upright and grab the remote, flicking on the TV for background noise.
I have no idea why I’m so wiped. I’m never home this early from Eden, even when I’m working the bar.
I thumb through channels without really seeing them, one blur of canned sitcom laughter after another.
Then a headline scrolls across the bottom of the screen on a news channel, and my finger freezes on the button.
Rock sensation Carter Ashford and his band, Pulse, touch down in Sydney ahead of sold-out world tour.
The screen cuts to Carter stepping off a private jet, surrounded by security, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but I know what’s behind the dark lenses—a vivid blue gaze, cold as ice.