"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 makingbillion-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 ismassive, 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.
