Joyce:The Velvet? Isn’t that the club… the one where the models go?
The phone slips out of my hands and lands on the pillow.
The Velvet Room.
I bolt upright, ripping the face mask off with a damp towel without even checking the mirror.
I swear I’m not the kind of woman who behaves like this.
But… I can’t stay here.
I can’t sit on this couch imagining him walking into that club, ordering a drink, smiling at some long-legged girl with easy intentions.
I have to know.
I need to look him in the face and see whether he’s the Cohen from the porch or the Cohen from the tabloids.
I yank on the first things I find: black leggings, an oversized sweater, snow boots. Grab my keys. Step into the freezing night.
This isn’t jealousy.
I chant it in my head as a thousand scenarios flash by.
This isn’t jealousy.
It’s professionalism.
Self-preservation.
My father was clear:
No more screwups.
No more scandals.
Cohen has to stay in line if he wants back on the team—and if we want this reality show to not become a national joke before it even airs.
We worked hard.Iworked hard.
And now? The first chance he gets, he bolts into the night to party with some model at the Velvet?
Snow crunches under my boots as I stalk toward my SUV.
“Not this time, Becker,” I growl, starting the engine. “I’m not letting you ruin all my work just because you can’t keep your zipper shut.”
The Velvet Room isn’t a club.
It’s a black hole made of dark bricks and tinted glass, surrounded by a velvet rope separating mortals from the chosen (or the desperate).
The purple neon sign buzzes in the cold like a lure for bad decisions.
I spot Cohen’s Porsche immediately—parked diagonally across two spaces like whoever drove it bailed out mid-roll.
I slam my car door shut, December air slicing my cheeks like glass. My fury keeps me warm.
I expected to find him inside.
I’d rehearsed the speech during the drive: I would bribe a bouncer, kick open the VIP room, find him with a model on each knee and that infuriating grin on his face.
