Page 12 of Meet Me In The Dark

Do I want to go? No. God, no. Yes, maybe. I don’t know. The whole thing terrifies me, but I keep imagining it.

Against my own advice, and after scolding Madison for doing the same thing, I searched online. Predictably, nothing official came up, but a forum about that podcast episode led me to a thread. Rumors say the club rotates locations, has no official name, and invitations arrive sealed in black wax.

You don’t find it.

It finds you.

It’s for the elite, with a vetting process so intense you’re watched before you’re ever considered. The only other way in is a personal recommendation fromsomeone already inside.

No one knows who’s behind it. No names. No leaks. Just whispers.

It hasn’t helped that last week, four weeks after surgery, Dr. Patel gave me the all-clear for my extra activities. Technically, he meant morning runs, but I knew what I really wanted to ask, and I’m pretty sure he knew too. He said I was healed. That everything looked great.

On the outside, maybe.

Inside, I’m completely touch-starved.

My trusty vibrator isn’t cutting it anymore. Not even close.

Madison suggested dating apps, but honestly, they give me hives.

Would I like to meet someone? Sure. Am I opposed to falling in love? Not at all. I’d love someone to come home to. Someone steady. Someone mine.

But finding someone who wants that without the picket fence and the baby name shortlists? That’s harder, especially at my age. I’m almost thirty, and most of the men I meet who are ready to settle down want the full package—the house, the marriage, the kids.

I can handle the house and the marriage.

The kids? I’m still unsure about that.

I love children, I really do. I think I’d even be a good mom, considering my parents taught me how not to do it. But I’ve never had this urge to see my belly swell with life inside it.

Yet, when I first became a patient of Dr. Patel’s, I sat in his office and listened as he explained my endometriosis—how my uterus was fused to my bowel, how my organs were stuck together like melted plastic, and how sex would continue to be painfulunless something changed. He also mentioned that people with my condition often struggle to conceive.

Not always, but often.

I cried for days because there’s something really unfair about having a choice taken away from you, even if it’s a choice you weren’t planning to make.

So yeah, I just want something for myself. Something that feels good. Maybe ease myself back out there and remember what it feels like to be touched without bracing for pain.

And maybe a sex club isn’t the most practical way to ease into anything, but damn if it hasn’t taken up residence in the back of my mind.

Dear God, I seriously need help.

Exhaling, I focus on my new office instead because it’s safer territory than sex clubs. This space is now mine. It symbolizes the hard-earned promotion that followed the Sterling Vista Tower—a project I poured every ounce of myself into, and now a stunning silhouette outside my window.

I started here, at Sinclair Architecture, as a jittery intern who had more ambition than sense with a bad haircut, worse wardrobe, and enough self-doubt to fill a skyscraper. Now I have a bigger office and a fancy title.

“Good morning.”

“Jesus.” I scramble upright, my heart pounding in my chest. “Morning.”

Lilian Sinclair glides through the door, poised as always. Her knowing eyes scan me, and a subtle smile plays at the corners of her lips.

“How are you feeling?” She’s been asking me that every morning since I returned to work a week after my surgery.

“Good. Great, actually.” I fiddle with my pen, immediately proving otherwise.

She pulls out a chair and sits. “You seem distracted.”