Monarch.
I click the link, and the page blooms to life in black and gold. Sleek. Luxurious. Not the kind of place that caters to sloppy drunks or corner hustlers, but to men who want to spend money just to prove they can. Exactly what I need.
The photos confirm it: women on stage in high-end lingerie, poised and unshaken under the lights, her confidence as much of a weapon as her body. Men rain bills at her feet, greedy for a taste of something they’ll never have. Everything about it screams power and money—and money is survival.
Perfect.
The number glows at the bottom of the Monarch site, and I dial without a second thought. The line rings twice before a woman answers, her voice crisp and efficient, the kind that’s used to handling the same request over and over.
“Monarch. How can I help you?”
“Hi,” I say, pitching my tone casually. “I was wondering if you’re hiring dancers.”
There’s a pause—paper shuffling, maybe keys clicking. When she answers, her tone is practiced but not unkind. “We’re always looking for talent. What’s your experience?”
I sink back against the bed, the phone warm against my ear, and let the answer roll out smoothly. “I’ve worked in a few clubs,” I say. “But I’m looking for somewhere more exclusive. Somewhere with a clientele worth my time.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Monarch is exclusive. We cater toselect clients. I can schedule you for an interview. Are you available tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow works,” I reply, steady. “What time?”
She gives me the details, her voice clipped with efficiency, and just before I can end the call, she adds, “Be prepared. We expect the best.”
A small laugh slips from me, sharp and certain. “Understood.”
When the line clicks dead, I set the phone aside and let out a breath. Tomorrow, I’ll walk into Monarch with a new name and the same armor I’ve carried for seven years. The shadows will be mine to move through. The money will follow.
“Getthe fuck out of my club, you worthless piece of shit.”
My words cut through the night, cold and final. The man slams into the alley wall, his legs scrambling to find ground beneath him, but Talon’s already there with a brutal knee to the ribs. Perry follows it up with a clean shot to the jaw, the crack of fist to flesh echoing off the brick. The bastard folds, gasping like a fish, blood mixing with the stench of stale beer as he chokes out, “It was just a misunderstanding!”
Sure. That’s what they all say. Right before I decide whether they leave with their teeth intact—or in a body bag.
I stalk forward, boots slicing through the wet silence of the alley. The man looks up just as I crouch down, and I grab a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back until he has no choice but to meet my eyes. I want him to see exactly who’s deciding whether he breathes tomorrow.
“There are no misunderstandings here,” I say, voice calm, the kind of calm that curdles blood. “Only rules. And you broke mine.”
His pupils blow wide. He knows what’s coming.
I slam his head against the wall, hard enough to rattle bone, not hard enough to end him. One memory is all he needs.
“Next time you feel like touching what doesn’t belong to you,” I growl against his ear, my grip tightening until he winces, “make sure you’re not under my roof when you do it. The womenwho work here are under my protection. They are not yours to grab. They are to be respected.”
I shove his head back, watch it crack against the wall one more time before his body slides down, limp and wheezing. Talon and Perry move in, silent and efficient, dragging him out like trash. He’ll wake up bruised, broken, and branded with a lesson: at Monarch, the dancers aren’t prey.
The alley goes quiet once they’re gone. I strip off my gloves and flex my hands. This part never shakes me. Violence is easy. Necessary. But the reason behind it—that’s what matters.
Every man who walks through my doors knows the rules, the women are untouchable. They come here to work, not to be pawed at by drunks who think cash buys them the right to degrade. My girls earn their money in a safe space, and I’ll never let anyone mistake their performance for permission. Respect is the price of entry here, and I don’t negotiate on it.
Inside, I can already feel the shift that will ripple when word gets around. The club breathes better when the line is clear—Monarch is mine, and the women who dance under its lights answer only to themselves. Anyone who forgets that answers to me.
I’ve run Monarch for nine years. On paper, it’s clean—one of our most reliable fronts, polished enough to satisfy auditors and city inspectors. But a select group know better. The real business happens in the shadows, and I make sure every detail runs the way I want it.
Tonight, though, something feels off. The balance is shifting.
“Office,” I say to Lars.
He doesn’t hesitate. He’s been tracking me since I came back inside, the only man in my circle steady enough to meet my gaze when I’m on edge. That’s why he’s here. That’s why he stays close.
