“Of course.”I lean back, studying her.Lovely doesn’t begin to cover it.She’s radiant.And I remember every detail of her body, every sound she made.Sex I can buy.What I had with her, I can’t replicate.
The sedan’s interior feels too small suddenly.Her scent—that damned jasmine—fills the space between us like a third presence.I want to touch her.Not professionally.Not as the man who owns a club built on managed carnality.I want to touch her the way I did before, when we were just two people absconding reality for a weekend, when her laugh was unguarded and my fingers knew the geography of her skin.
The partition feels thin.The driver mere feet away.The leather seat creaks as I shift, trying to create distance that doesn’t exist in this enclosed space.Every breath I take tastes like her.
She stares out the window, as if anywhere else would be preferable.
“In your CIA training,” I ask, “did they teach you how to forget an unforgettable weekend?One that changed everything?”
The car stops at The Sanctuary.She reaches for the handle.
“They taught me how to compartmentalize,” she says.
“And how is that working for you, Brie Anderson?”
She looks back, just once, eyes ocean-deep, the woman who played piano under moonlight breaking through the operative’s mask.
“It never fails me.”
But her hand trembles on the door handle.Just slightly.Just enough for me to see the lie.The driver opens her door.Cold air rushes in, breaking the spell of memory.She steps out onto the sidewalk with practiced grace, every inch the professional who knows how to disappear.This time, I won’t let her.
ChapterFive
Brie
The nondescript entrance in the Meatpacking District isn’t what I expect from a seven-figure initiation fee.Black plaque, black brick, black door—understated lure by design.Adrien keys a code; the door glides.The doorman’s in black-on-black, the kind of muscle that doesn’t advertise.
“And her phone?”he asks.
“She’s with me,” Adrien says, and the rule evaporates.
Policy overridden in three words.
Inside, marble and gold wash the room in luxury.Windowless, clockless—this place pretends it’s always midnight, and everyone looks better by design.Corners hold smoked domes and pin-lens glass.Mostly hidden—just visible enough to remind you that you’re seen.
Exits: three.Choke points: two.Blind zones: none apparent.
The motion door sighs open to an intimate bar dressed in velvet and bathed in low light.
“This is the restaurant?”
“This is one of the bars.It offers a casual dining experience or a place to venture for dessert and after-dinner drinks.The New York club has four bars and lounges, one restaurant with a Michelin star chef, a spa, and suites.”
“Suites,” I repeat when he lists the offerings, hearing the part he doesn’t say: curated boundaries and privacy.“How did you get into this business?”
In Monaco, he’d taken me away on his yacht after a vicious fight with his father, who insisted he needed to be the one to take over the family business.Adrien had countered that his sister was more suited, and deserving, and I’d admired his progressive stance.That weekend had been a big fashion event, important for their business, and he absconded on the family’s yacht to allow his sister to prove to their father she could handle it all.I’d stumbled on him at the bar after he’d downed a shot, licking his wounds from his father’s verbal lashing.
Three weeks later the company announced Margot d’Avricourt would succeed her father as CEO, so I assumed his plan succeeded.The article made no mention of Adrien, but it had been a 150-word announcement buried pages deep inThe London Timesthat only those with stock in d’Avricourt Luxe might have registered.
“I studied the fundamentals.”His chin lifts, arms to his side, defensive?No, prideful.“Lifestyle made the most sense for an Avricourt Luxe brand extension.We sell clothes, handbags, jewelry, and fragrance in the high-end, luxury market.The high-value segment—clients who spend over fifty thousand a year, have more they could spend, but it’s not just about claiming a larger share of their expenditures.It’s about understanding this customer in a way we can’t from market studies.”
Fantasy sells.Reality invoices later.“Aren’t these customers your friends and family?”
“A small sample size never provides the insight one needs.”
“And a sex club is?—”
“Where’d you get the idea that The Sanctuary is a sex club?”Tension threads his response, likely because we’ve been over this, but I can’t shake my perception.“We’re an exclusive social community, an unforgettable spa, and a travel experience with private events around the world.Desire is profitable.Intimacy isn’t.We offer discreet, safe locations for a variety of activities, all in compliance with regional laws.If you’re envisioning strippers and lap dances, that’s not us.”
