Chapter 5: An Invitation to Sin

Chapter 5: An Invitation to Sin

For twenty-four hours, my apartment was a prison and I was my own warden. The "M&M" text message burned on my phone screen, a digital brand. The sleek black business card sat on my counter like a tombstone for my old life. And beside it, the envelope.

I’d made the mistake of opening it.

My hands, usually steady enough to build a carburetor from scratch, had trembled as I counted the cash. Ten thousand dollars. Twenty. It wasn’t a tip. It was an anchor, heavy and dense, designed to pull me down into their world. It was life-changing money. It was bail. It was a down payment on a soul.

Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that room. The ghost of Melissa’s desperate, revelatory cry echoed in the silence of my apartment. The memory of her whispered proposal—I want you there. With us—wasn't a drug-fueled fantasy; it was a hook baited with the twenty thousand dollars sitting on my kitchen counter. The ‘us’ had become terrifyingly plural.

My desire was simple: to take the money and run. To ride my Norton east until I hit an ocean, change my number, and pretend the last forty-eight hours never happened. The obstacle was the toxic, addictive cocktail of my own curiosity and the knowledge that this kind of money could buy me freedom. A different kind of freedom than the one I found on the road, but freedom nonetheless. Freedom from bartending, from budgeting, from the gnawing anxiety of next month’s rent.

I spent the day in a state of agonizing paralysis, a war raging between the pragmatic survivor and the reckless thrill-seeker who had gotten me into this mess. The survivor screamed at me to burn the card and block the number. The thrill-seeker, a part of me I kept locked away, whispered, But what if you don't? What if this is the excitement you've been craving?

Late in the afternoon, as the sun bled orange and purple across the city skyline, the phone rang. Not a buzz from a text, but a full, shrieking ring. The screen lit up with an unknown number. My heart seized in my chest. I knew who it was.

I let it ring three times, a pathetic attempt to feign indifference. My hand hovered over the screen. Don't answer. Don't.

My thumb betrayed me. I swiped to accept the call.

"Jade," Madison's voice was a smooth, confident purr on the other end, as if she'd had no doubt I would pick up. "I trust you've had a restful day."

"What do you want, Madison?" My voice was clipped, harsher than I intended.

A low chuckle. "Straight to business. I like that. I have another gig for you, if you're interested."

My blood ran cold. "I'm not a stripper."

"Darling, I know what you are. And what you aren't," she said, her tone shifting, losing its playful edge for a fraction of a second. "This isn't for bartending, either. This is a meeting. A… consultation, you could say. Tonight. Melissa and I would like to discuss a more permanent arrangement."

There it was. The other shoe dropping from a terrifying height. Melissa’s whispered wish, now given voice and legitimacy by her dominant best friend.

"An arrangement?" I echoed, my mouth dry.

"Melissa is getting married in a month. There are certain… educational needs her fiancé can't fulfill. Things she's only just discovered she wants. Things you introduced her to." Madison let the words hang in the air, a deliberate, calculated strike. "He's a very generous man. We're prepared to be very generous. Far more generous than a single envelope."

My eyes flickered to the stacks of cash on my counter. The fortress of my independence, my one-woman-against-the-world ethos, was being systematically dismantled by a woman with a checkbook and a twisted agenda.

"I don't know," I hedged, the lie tasting like ash. I did know. I was going. My weakness for beautiful, dangerous women who promised to break my boredom was a fatal flaw.

"Just a conversation, Jade. No obligations," she purred, sensing my surrender. "I'll text you the address. Nine o'clock. Dress like you're worth what we're planning to pay you."

The line went dead. A moment later, a text appeared with the name of a place I'd only ever heard of in whispers: Elysium. It wasn't a bar or a restaurant. It was a private, members-only club, a playground for the city's wealthiest and most discreet elite.

An hour later, I was standing in front of my closet, the scent of leather and motor oil fighting a losing battle against the impending perfume of sin. I chose my armor carefully: tight black jeans that clung like a second skin, heeled boots that added a dangerous edge, and a silk camisole under my favorite worn leather jacket. It was the only part of me that felt real. The cascade of tattoos down my arm was a splash of defiance against the world I was about to enter.

Elysium had no sign. It was just a heavy, unmarked mahogany door on a quiet, cobblestoned street. A single, imposing man in a perfectly tailored suit stood beside it, his presence a clear deterrent. He didn't ask for my name. He just looked at me, his eyes scanning me from head to toe, and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod before opening the door.

The world inside was a shock to the senses. It was like stepping into a Baz Luhrmann film set in a vampire's opium den. The lighting was low and crimson, casting long shadows from clusters of plush, velvet furniture. The air was thick with the scent of old leather, expensive bourbon, and a heavy, cloying floral note I couldn't place. Soft, instrumental jazz trickled from hidden speakers, a decadent soundtrack for the secrets being whispered in dimly lit booths. The patrons were a mix of old money and new tech, all dressed impeccably, their faces artfully arranged in masks of casual power. This wasn't a place for fun; it was a place for transactions, for desires to be negotiated and indulged far from the judgment of the outside world.

I gave my name to a hostess who looked like a fallen angel, and she led me through the main lounge, her heels sinking silently into a thick Persian rug. We ascended a sweeping, curved staircase to a second-floor gallery of private, curtained-off alcoves. She stopped before one draped in heavy, dark blue velvet.

"They're waiting for you inside," she murmured, before disappearing as silently as she had appeared.

My heart hammered against my ribs. This was the final threshold. My hand, the one with the tattooed knuckles, reached for the velvet curtain. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the sight of Madison's smug smirk and Melissa's nervous, excited gaze.

I pulled the curtain aside and stepped in.

The alcove was intimate, a U-shaped booth wrapping around a small, low table. Madison was there, of course, looking regal and severe in a blood-red dress, a glass of dark liquor in her hand. Across from her, Melissa sat perched on the edge of the seat, her hands twisting a napkin in her lap. She wore a simple, elegant cream dress, and when her eyes met mine, they held a spark of that awakened hunger I’d seen in the bedroom.

But they weren't alone.

Sitting beside Melissa, with a proprietary arm resting along the back of the booth behind her, was a man. He was handsome in a clean-cut, predictable way—sharp suit, expensive watch, a confident but easy smile. He looked exactly like the kind of man a woman like Melissa was supposed to marry.

He was the fiancé. Mark.

He wasn't an obstacle. He wasn't the clueless husband-to-be. He was here. His smile widened as he saw me, a look of keen, intelligent appraisal in his eyes. It was the look of a collector who had just laid eyes on a rare and coveted acquisition.

In that single, shattering moment, I understood. The situation wasn't a secret affair I was being paid to facilitate. It was infinitely more complex. And as Mark raised his glass to me in a silent, welcoming toast, I realized with a sickening, thrilling lurch that the desires of this couple were far darker, and far more orchestrated, than I had ever imagined.