Smile like you want this.
My heart hammers so hard I can feel it behind my eyes.
The host continues, warm and confident.
“Tonight is about discretion,” he says. “Tonight is about privilege.”
More noise. More approval. A chorus of men who think they’re at a party.
For them, this is a party. This isn’t a lifeline.
The curtain shifts again, and this time I can see the outline of a person moving behind it. Someone stepping into position. Someone ready to pull it back.
The woman’s hand comes to the small of my back again. Light pressure. A reminder. Not gentle. Not cruel. Efficient.
“This is you,” she whispers.
My knees feel weak.
I swallow hard. The swallow doesn’t work. My throat stays tight.
The host’s voice lifts a little higher, leaning into performance.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “thank you for your patience.”
The curtain begins to move.
My stomach heaves.
The woman’s hand presses again. “Walk.”
I take a step.
My heel clicks on hardwood and the sound seems too loud, too exposed. Like it announces me.
I take another.
The curtain opens wider.
Noise hits me in a wave—voices, laughter, the low murmur of money and hunger.
I keep my chin up, mouth soft, eyes forward.
I step through.
Chapter Two
Nico
The entrance is discreet. That’s the point.
No marquee. No velvet rope on the sidewalk. No line of idiots taking photos like this is a club worth bragging about. You get a time, a place, and a door that looks like it leads to a private event for people with money and secrets.
Both are required.
I hand my invitation over without breaking stride. The guy at the check doesn’t ask my name. He doesn’t need it. He gives a brief nod, eyes flicking to my face and then away, like looking too long might be a mistake.
He steps aside.
