For the first time in seventy-eight hours, I breathe. I decide to explore.
2
SELENA
I walk a few blocks until I hear music drifting down from a rooftop. It sounds festive, and festive is exactly what I am not. Still, the magnetic pull of happy people—oflife—is irresistible. I check the address on the discreet brass plaque:The Summit.
I enter the lobby, expecting a standard rooftop bar. Instead, I find a heavy velvet rope and a bouncer who looks like he eats compact cars for breakfast. I’m still wearing my interview outfit: a black pencil skirt, a white silk blouse, a ruby choker for luck, and a cropped suit jacket. It’s fashionable, but definitely not "nightclub" fiery.
“ID?” the mountain of a man asks.
He checks my license, his eyes lingering on my Iowa address for a fraction of a second before he offers a wide, knowing smile. He unhooks the velvet rope. “Welcome to New York, Selena.”
The elevator ride up is silent, but when the doors slide open, the bass hits me in the chest.
The space is buzzing. The décor is a sleek, intoxicating blend of onyx, royal blue, and silver. It takes me exactly ten seconds to realize this isn’t just a bar. The seating doesn't consist of barstools or booths. It consists of beds.
Huge, circular velvet beds. Four-poster beds with sheer privacy curtains. Daybeds piled high with silk pillows.
I head to the bar—the one recognizable safe zone—and order a Chardonnay, probably the most suburban drink in all of New York City, but it’s all I can handle. I shovel a handful of spiced nuts into my mouth, trying to process my life. I haven't eventaken two sips when a heavy warmth presses against my back. A hand slides possessively over my ass.
“Hey!” I whip around, nearly spilling my drink.
“Hey yourself.” A guy grins, stepping into my personal space. He’s handsome in a generic, frat-boy way, but his eyes are glassy. He brackets my hips with his arms, trapping me against the mahogany bar. “You’re giving off serious ‘hot assistant’ vibes. I like it.”
I can feel him pressing against my thigh. Hard. Ew.
“I was going for more of a ‘get your fucking hands off me’ vibe,” I snap, my voice trembling slightly.
“Feisty. I love a challenge,” he growls, leaning in to sniff my neck.
He doesn't let go. Panic, sharp and cold, spikes in my chest. Instinct takes over. I flick my wrist and toss my Chardonnay right into his face.
For a second, the music seems to stop. He wipes wine from his eyes, his expression shifting from lust to rage.
“You little bitch—”
“It’s best you leave the woman alone. Now.”
A hand clamps onto the guy’s shoulder. It’s not a violent grab, but the force behind it is undeniable. My rescuer is a tall, imposing figure in a charcoal wool suit that costs more than my student loans. His silver hair catches the ambient light.
The creep spins around, fists clenched, but he shrinks when he sees who he’s facing.
The man in the suit offers me a dazzling, calm smile. “Come, darling. I found us a bed; the view is better from there.”
The harasser scrambles back as security materializes out of the shadows. My "fiancé" calmly explains to the lead guard that the man was touching me without consent. Before I can process what’s happening, the creep is being hauled toward the elevator, and I’m being guided toward a massive, circular bed at the far end of the terrace.
“Are you okay?” my rescuer asks. His voice is deep, gravelly, and wraps around me like a warm coat.
“Just shook up, ‘Fiancé,’” I manage a weak laugh.
“Being a fiancé is the safest cover in a place like this,” he says, gesturing for me to sit on the edge of the mattress. “Did you come here alone?”
“I... I didn't know what ‘here’ was,” I admit, looking around at the couples (and throuples) lounging on the furniture. “Is this legal?”
He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. “It’s a private members club. Think of it as Tinder, but live and vetted. Sit. You’re shaking.”
“I’m not here for sex,” I stammer, my knees finally giving out. I sink onto the plush velvet. He catches my elbow to steady me.
