"Yes."
We walk the half block in comfortable silence. August heat lingers even as twilight deepens, humid air wrapping around us. Music drifts from nearby bars, laughter from tourists stumbling between venues, the night rhythm of the Quarter—music, spilled beer, jasmine cutting through everything.
The door opens before I can knock. The doorman nods. "Good evening. Welcome to Dominion."
"Luc arranged guest privileges," I say.
"Of course. Mr. Pascal, Dr. Durand, welcome." He steps aside, revealing the entrance hall beyond. Rich wood paneling,soft lighting, the subtle scent of leather and expensive perfume. "Your clothing has been placed in the submissives' salon as requested."
Isabella's throat works, but her voice stays steady. "Thank you."
We move inside. The entrance hall opens into a receiving area where members sign in, check coats, and transition from the outside world into whatever they become here. Margot stands near the desk speaking with another woman, both dressed in elegant cocktail attire that reads professional rather than playful.
My sister. Here. At Dominion.
Margot runs Beaumont's, manages the restaurant with the same precision Maman applied to everything. What the fuck is she doing at a private club in the Warehouse District on a Saturday night looking like she owns the place?
Margot glances up, registers our presence, and her mouth curves. "Remy. Isabella. I was wondering when you'd make it."
Isabella blinks. "You're here."
"I own the place." Margot's tone is matter-of-fact, like she's discussing menu revisions instead of running the most exclusive BDSM club in New Orleans. "Acquired it years ago through one of Luc's shell companies. He provides security consulting. I handle operations and member relations."
My sister. Running Dominion. The club Luc mentioned handling security for, the one I assumed was just another contract in his portfolio of semi-legal work. Neither of us knew she owned it.
"JJ recommended me to the previous owner," Margot continues, watching my expression with satisfaction. "Thought I'd be good at managing the kind of discretion this world requires. She wasn't wrong."
"Does Luc know?"
"He does now." Margot's smile sharpens. "His face looked a lot like yours when I told him this morning. Brothers never think their sisters understand power dynamics." She turns to Isabella. "The salon is through that door, first left down the hallway. Camille knows you're coming."
Isabella glances at me, questioning without words whether I'm coming with her or if she does this part alone.
"I'll meet you in the main lounge," I tell her. "Take your time."
Combat I understand. This? Watching her walk away knowing what's coming? That's a different kind of discipline.
"You look like someone hit you with a brick," Margot observes.
"You run a BDSM club."
"And a restaurant. I multitask." She straightens papers on the desk. "I've prepared a private room for later. Standard fire play setup since you requested it when Luc called earlier."
"When did you—" I stop. Process. "How long have you been doing this?"
"Years. Built it into the most profitable members-only club in the city." Pride edges into her voice. "Turns out managing dominants and submissives isn't that different from managing line cooks and front of the house staff. Both require understanding power, anticipating needs, and knowing when to let people self-destruct versus when to intervene."
My sister. The woman I left behind to grieve our parents alone. She built an empire while I was overseas playing spy.
"You could've told me."
"You could've come home." The words cut clean. Then she softens, fractionally. "You're family, Remy. This is what family does. We build things. We protect what's ours. Now go show your woman what control really means."
The doorman appears at my elbow. "The private room will be ready when you’re finished with your scene. Fire wands, safety blanket, water basin as requested."
"Good."
I move toward the main lounge. Dominion's main floor is designed for impact. High ceilings with exposed beams, leather furniture arranged in conversational groupings, a bar along one wall staffed by bartenders who know how to read a room. Play spaces occupy alcoves and raised platforms, some curtained for privacy, others open for exhibition.
