Page 14 of Dominion’s Collar

"Natalie. That's kind of you."

"Dominion thrives on community. Newer members especially benefit from knowing they have support." He signals Renata for a drink with the ease of a regular. "Renata mentioned you're a writer. That's wonderful. We need more thoughtful voices talking about what we do."

He discusses the community with professorial ease. Mentorship. Experienced members taking responsibility for the culture.

The warmth is steady, and I find myself leaning in the way I do with a good interview subject.

"I'm interested in how communities like this survive crises," I tell him. "Dominion has been through serious incidents and come out stronger. That's unusual."

"Margot deserves the credit. She rebuilt this place with intention." He sips his drink. "Other clubs weren't so fortunate."

"You were part of one that wasn't?"

"Elysium." A gentleness enters his voice. "It was a beautiful club. Smaller than Dominion. More intimate. Its closing was a loss for everyone involved."

"What happened?"

"A tragedy." The word drops between us. His expression gentles. "Accidents in the lifestyle are rare, but they do happen. When they happen inside a private community, the consequences extend beyond the incident itself. Elysium couldn't recover."

My sister's death is the tragedy he's referring to. I hold my face in sympathetic interest and file every word, every pause, and every shift in his tone.

He reads as genuine. Concerned. Accessible. All of it goes alongside the question at the center of my investigation.

Prosper excuses himself with a handshake as firm as the first. "I've been part of this world for a long time. Seek me out if you have questions about the lifestyle's history. Happy to help however I can." I follow him with my eyes as he crosses the floor toward a cluster of members near the lounge.

He moves through Dominion with the familiarity of an owner, except Margot already holds that title. The space rearranges itself to accommodate him anyway.

At the far end of the bar, a woman I haven't seen before is standing with a wine glass and posture that could cut glass. Dark eyes, cropped hair, sharp features. Lean and economical, dressed in minimalist black that costs more than it looks like it should.

She glances across the floor at someone, and the glance is cool and dismissive.

On her way past me, she says something to Renata in French, too fast for me to catch. Renata answers in English with a look that suggests the French was deliberate. The woman's mouth adjusts by a millimeter. The adjustment is funnier than most people's laughter.

I leave the club earlier than my previous visits. The night air wraps around me, and I walk to my car with my mind already sorting the damage.

Tomas is shut down. Cécile's phone is dead. And somewhere between Margot's expectations and Sebastien's attention, the space I have to operate in just got smaller.

Back at the rental, I open my laptop and search for Cécile Doucet.

Her social media accounts are gone. Not deactivated. Gone. The profiles I bookmarked months ago return nothing. The forum posts I screenshotted from archived Elysium threads have vanished from their original locations. I check the cached versions on two different archive sites. Dissolving. Her username returns zero results on platforms where I read her comments just weeks ago.

Every digital trace of the woman I came to New Orleans to meet is disappearing. Cécile could have done it herself. A frightened woman might delete her accounts, change her number, disappear on purpose. But this fast, this thorough, across this many platforms? It doesn't feel like someone running scared.

I sit with that for a long time.

I pull up Claire's correspondence and start cross-referencing the names I've gathered at Dominion. Most produce nothing new.

Prosper, mentioned in a thread of Claire's emails I flagged months ago. The warm handshake. The open invitation to discuss Elysium's history. His name in my sister's files.

I can't tell yet whether his name appears because Claire trusted him or because she was looking into him. Both readings fit.

I close the laptop. Claire's photograph is tucked into the corner of the bathroom mirror where I see it every morning. She's laughing at something I don't remember.

I came to New Orleans for Dominion and for Cécile. The club is still standing. Cécile is gone.

I was in contact with her. I was asking questions about Claire. And now a woman who was finally ready to talk has been scrubbed from every corner of the internet.

Which means asking about Claire may have put another woman in danger.