At the heart of the room, a dancer moves languidly around a pole on a smaller side stage. Every motion commands attention without disrupting the intimacy of the space. Clever design.
We settle into our seats and quickly order drinks. Bottle service isn’t on the agenda tonight; that’s for tomorrow. Tonight is about recon—get in, observe, and get out.
For the past two years, Lars and I have taken trips like thisevery other month, a ritual to keep us sharp. The Monarch, our club back in Chicago, has solidified itself as the city’s most exclusive gentlemen’s club, but this industry is ruthless. Dancers chase whispers of better clubs, wealthier clientele, management that promises the world. To stay ahead, you have to step outside your bubble, learn what others are doing right, and adapt.
Lauren returns with our drinks, her timing impeccable. I pull my card from my wallet to open a tab as she sets a vodka soda in front of me and a scotch with a single ice cube in front of Lars. He thanks her, then leans back in his chair, surveying the room.
“This place lives up to the hype,” he muses, his gaze tracing the interplay of shadows and light.
I squeeze a lime wedge into my glass, the tart scent mingling with the faint trace of smoke in the air. “It’s solid. The layout is genius.”
Lars smirks, nodding toward the floor. “We should get a few dances. Let them know we’ll be back tomorrow. After that, I’m ready to call it a night.” His eyes sweep the room again, the ambient lighting catching the deep burgundy of his suit and the polished sheen of his leather loafers.
“You’re getting boring in your old age.” I scoff.
He snaps his attention to me. “I’m 34, only two years older than you, asshole.”
“Exactly. Old,” I say, lifting my drink with a smirk. But my words fade as I spot a tall blonde in red lingerie, stepping onto the side stage.
“She looks like your type.” I nod toward the center of the room.
His gaze follows mine, locking onto her as she moves confidently onto the podium. “Yeah, she’ll do just fine.” He straightens, pulling out his wallet and sliding a neat stack of twenties onto the table. Fishing out three, he grins. “I’ll be back.”
I watch him stride toward her as a new song kicks in. Lars has always had a thing for blondes. Me? I prefer the rare combination of dark hair and light eyes.
I shift my focus back to the room, scanning the glow and shadows of the main floor. The lights pulse gently over the tables, and then one woman catches my attention. She moves through the crowd with quiet confidence, owning the space without needing to announce it. Petite, brunette, with a killer figure and just the right touch of maturity. Absolute perfection.
She weaves effortlessly through the maze of chairs, stopping now and then to chat with different men, her smile warm and practiced.
“Is there anything I can bring you?”
Lauren’s voice breaks through my thoughts, drawing my attention back to the table.
I glance up, then gesture subtly toward the brunette in pink, still moving through the room. “Her. Can you ask her to come see me, please? The brunette in pink.” I slip a twenty into Lauren’s hand.
Her professional smile never falters as she tucks the bill into her pocket. “Certainly.” With a pivot on her stilettos, she vanishes into the crowd.
I move through the club,my heels pressing into the worn carpet as the bass vibrates in my chest. My head is held high, my flirtatious smile is practiced. Every face that tipped me during my last set is locked in my memory. Time to make my rounds.
"Thanks for the tip," I say at one table, tracing a finger along a man’s shoulder. "Care for some company?"
The line isn’t my favorite, but it works. Most nights, it doesn’t bother me. Tonight, though, it grates at my nerves. My focus is fractured, my patience wearing thin. Part of me wonders why I even came in.
Because today is my birthday. More specifically, my thirtieth birthday.
Tonight, I’m supposed to be somewhere else entirely. Standing under chandeliers, raising champagne glasses, surrounded by fake smiles and empty words. At least, that’s what my father had planned five years ago before I decided to destroy it all.
Lachlan Kavanagh, the Don of the Emerald Brotherhood in Chicago, had laid out my future with precision. Today, on my thirtieth birthday, I was to marry the son of Jerome Falco of the Philadelphia-based Syndicate, Blackline Holdings. A merger of families, tying loyalties together with rings and bloodlines.
I wasn’t a daughter to him at that moment; I was a transaction, a pawn in his endless climb for power, ports, and money.
I can still hear his voice from that night. We were in the cold, cavernous study of our house, his gaze sharp.
“This is what’s best for the family, Zara. You’ll be a good wife. A good mother. That’s your duty.”
As if my life, my happiness, didn’t even register.
But I had my own plans. My mother might have been able to protect me once, but after she was gone, there was no one left to fight for me. That meant I had to fight for myself.
