Page 29 of Coveted

It’s hard to imagine anything criminal happening in an exclusive college town like this.

Carefree students roam in groups. Adults in designer suits meet for drinks after work at open-air restaurants. The town whispers with old money, evident in the gas-style street lamps and ivy-covered heritage buildings.

When I reach Altar on a quiet side street, at first I think I’ve made a mistake. Expecting a grand establishment, I’m confused to find only heavy wood doors and a plain building.

Then I look closer. A discreet brass plaque next to the door bears the word Altar in an elegant font.

Chewing my lip, I consider leaving.

I imagined Altar as a loud, thriving bar, like the ones I passed. Swanky, yes, but public.

What stands before me is a den. A secret.

This was a huge mistake. I want to return to my dorm and stay there, possibly forever.

Before I can go, the door opens and a stern-looking man wearing a suit and earpiece steps out. His clinical eyes sweep over me.

“May I help you?” he asks in clipped tones, like I just said something silly.

My voice wavers. “Uh, I’m Sadie Marlowe. I’m supposed to be meeting⁠—”

Before I finish, he holds the door wider and waves me inside.

I release a long breath, deciding.

Fine, why not? I’m already here. What’s the worst that can happen?

The bouncer closes the door behind us, sealing me in.

I feel like I’ve entered another century. The bar’s dark paneling, leather armchairs, and amber lighting seem to belong to their own universe. An expensive universe I was never meant to see.

Quiet jazz mingles with low conversations.

“Welcome to Altar,” says the man. “Mr. Hale will meet you in a private parlor. Follow me, if you please.”

He bows to a club member who walks by without acknowledging us.

The member wears a top hat and a coat with tails, making me feel drastically underdressed in my skirt and sweater.

The bouncer leads me to the dead end of a hallway. In silence, he points to a sign on the wall.

Phones must remain pocketed.

“Okay,” I say.

My nerves jangle like bells. I must be truly deranged for coming here willingly. I feel like a lamb to slaughter.

This place reeks of a certain type of rich man. The ones who’ve never been refused anything in their lives. Who grow bored of normal pleasures. Who pluck their thrills from the dark like rotten cherries.

It reeks of Lucan.

The bouncer opens the parlor door, his steely gaze commanding me to enter.

“There’s no torture chamber in here, right?” I ask with a weak smile.

He acts like I said nothing.

The name of the bar takes on new meaning in my panicked imagination.