Chapter One
PENELOPE
The halloutside Sociology 201 smells like dry erase markers and the last dregs of burned coffee. I lock the classroom door behind me and slip the lanyard into my tote, the little TA badge flipping over and flashing my picture for an audience of zero. The campus is all brick, glass, and curated ivy, polished to impress visiting parents. Under the fluorescent haze, though, everything looks softer, less certain. My heels click a steady tempo that feels like escape. Friday.
My phone vibrates against my palm before I can put it away. Gideon’s name fills the screen. It always does things to me. Not the name itself, but the man attached to it. Champagne in crystal flutes, a hand warm against the back of my neck, a voice that sounds like honey and midnight.
I answer as I push through the glass door into the October air. “You miss me already?”
“That depends.” He’s smiling. I can hear it. “Are you wearing those little black frames you only pretend you need when you’re grading papers?”
I put the frames on even though I don’t have papers with me. “I wear them to intimidate freshmen. They don’t work on you.”
“Nothing does,” he says. “Except the way you say my name when you’re trying not to come.”
“Gideon.” I draw it out a little, just to mess with him. The late sun spills over the quad, finding my hair, and I let it. “You calling to tease me or do you actually want to chat?”
“Dinner.” A low laugh. “And whatever comes after dinner. I have a table at Soy & Sea at eight, Wednesday night. Wear a dress. No bra. Tell me no if you need to, but if you say yes, I’ll think about it while I’m stuck in meetings all day and you’ll ruin my focus.”
He always sounds like this, like deciding is worship. It’s one of the reasons I let things move from club to personal. With Gideon, I’m not a transaction. I’m a choice he keeps making.
“Yes,” I say. “Consider your focus ruined.”
“Consider my gratitude guaranteed,” he murmurs, and then his voice goes softer. “How was class, professor’s favorite?”
“It wasn’t class; it was TA orientation. We’re starting class Monday with Intro to Deviance,” I say. “Fitting, isn’t it?”
“Penelope.” A quiet inhale. “Everything you do is fitting when you’re the one choosing it.”
I laugh softly, remembering I’m twenty-one and still technically a student, finishing my undergrad in Sociology. A TA with a secret life. I stop at the top of the library steps and watch a group of students pose for a photo in matching sweatshirts. The word family burns at the edge of my mind like a match head touched to paper. “You’re very good at sounding wholesome while thinking about what you want.”
“I’m very good at getting what I want.” I can hear the shift as he moves, a door closing. “Wednesday is yours to lead if you want it to be. Or I will take it from you inch by inch if that is what you crave. I can read you, Pen. I just like when you say it.”
“Wednesday is mine until it isn’t,” I say, voice low. “But this weekend is Velvet House.”
A rumble of approval. “Behave.”
“Unlikely.”
He laughs again, rougher this time. “Text me when you get home. If you don’t, I’ll send a car and embarrass you.”
“Goodnight, Gideon.”
“Goodnight, Penelope.”
I hang up before the sound of his voice can bloom into need. The wind slides across my skin and lifts the hem of my skirt a fraction, as if the campus itself wants a peek. I head for my off-campus apartment with the quick, certain walk of a woman who knows where she’s going.
I make a ritual of Friday nights. Silk robe, the soft hum of the vanity lights glowing against the mirror. I take off the day, one layer at a time. The faint paper fragments on my blouse. The delicate gold chain of pearls I wear around my neck. The nude lipstick I wear to look professional and not pretty. The girl in the mirror is capable and clean.
The dress is a second skin, black with a plunge that stops just above indecent. My stockings end mid-thigh. I straighten my blonde hair and line my chocolate eyes with black. When I turn, a little silver dagger tattoo peeks at my ribcage. I smile at the mirror, then at the woman inside it, who smiles back like she knows everything I won’t say out loud.
Velvet House sits on a quiet street, and nothing about its exterior admits what it is. Slate facade with a discreet brass plaque anda doorman that only lets you in if you’re approved. Since I’m a regular, I don’t come through the main doors anymore. There’s a side entrance down the alley, tucked between two planters and a security camera. My VIP card unlocks it with a single tap.
Inside, the world becomes dim and seductive. Black marble floors polished to obsidian. Amber lights that fall like wheat over the bar, across the velvet stools and chairs, onto bodies and laughter and the glitter of a chandelier. Music thrums, steady as a heartbeat,Touch Me Like a Gangsterby Jesse Murph, playing low.
The hostess greets me by name and pulls me in for a quick cheek-kiss. “Mistress Saturday,” she teases, because I told her about tomorrow night and she knows I’m usually here to kneel. “You look like trouble.”
“I look like a sure thing,” I say. “Two different things.”
