Page 26

Okay . This doesn’t look so bad. Certainly, a lot better than I was envisaging.

The interior is stunning, not flashy, but controlled .

Velvet-lined walls in deep jewel tones, gold accents that catch the light just right.

A marble bar stretches across the far wall, backlit with amber shelves showcasing crystal decanters and liquor I can’t pronounce.

Soft jazz hums through invisible speakers, sensual and slow.

There’s no clutter. No chaos. Everything and everyone is exactly where it’s meant to be.

Tall, round tables with sleek, low lighting fill the main floor, but it’s the raised VIP section that draws the eye. Secluded alcoves with velvet curtains half-drawn, gold nameplates on tables, bottle service, private waitstaff.

It doesn’t feel like a bar. It feels like a stage.

Like I’ve walked straight into the middle of someone else’s performance, and I don’t know the script. A woman in all black approaches, tablet in hand. Her eyes scan me from head to toe, not unkind, just clinical.

“Jordyn?” she asks.

I nod, trying not to fidget. She smiles politely. “Follow me. Mr. Salvatore is expecting you.”

My heels click like muted drumbeats against the polished marble floor as I trail behind the woman through the club’s dimly lit corridors. Here, the bright clangour of the main bar dissolves into hushed laughter and the gentle tinkle of crystal glasses.

Velvet-draped private booths line the walls, each one glowing with the soft halo of low-wattage lamps. Every man in sight wears a perfectly tailored suit; every woman moves as though she’s an exquisite exhibit on display. Daylight may press against the windows, but inside these walls, night reigns.

A burly bouncer in a black suit and earpiece stands guard at a side entrance. His dark eyes flicker over me, and he offers a nearly imperceptible nod. No one else bothers to look. Yet I sense a thousand curious gazes trailing me as I keep my back rigid and my shoulders squared.

We reach a narrow hallway lined with golden sconces, their flames flickering against deep charcoal walls.

The woman pushes open an oaken door to reveal an office trimmed in cool, obsidian-hued wood.

A leather sofa and armchairs form a semicircle around a low table, and the air is laced with a heady blend of expensive cologne and quiet authority.

A man rises as I step inside. He’s in his early forties, hair jet-black and slicked back, the light catching the silver of his cufflinks. His smile is smooth and predatory, like a velvet-clad wolf baring white teeth.

“Miss Windslow,” he says warmly, extending a hand. His palm meets mine with a firm yet practiced grip, refined, not rough. “I’m Rocco Salvatore, Manager here at Eden. Please, sit.”

I lower myself onto the leather armchair, its cushions sighing under my weight. He settles back into his own chair, dark eyes gliding over me appraisingly.

“You’ve got a good look,” he remarks, voice low and confident. “And a name I haven’t heard before. That’s… useful.”

I offer a small nod, uncertain whether to thank him or tread more carefully.

“I hear you’re interested in part-time work,” he continues, fingertips steepled. “Our VIP floor is expanding its service team. You’d greet clients, pour drinks, engage in light conversation. Above all, discretion is priceless, our guests demand privacy.”

“Understood,” I say, choosing each word. “So… cocktail waitress, essentially.”

He chuckles softly, a sound like velvet brushing velvet. “In essence. But our patrons expect a certain presence. They want to feel noticed, remembered. Having beautiful women around makes them feel like royalty.”

A tight knot forms in my stomach, but I force a polite smile. “I can do that.”

He studies me another heartbeat, then nods, satisfied. “Then you’re hired. Trial shift starts tomorrow night. We’ll provide your uniform, heels mandatory, hair up.”

He rises, and I follow suit. As he escorts me to the door, he pauses, leaning in with a conspiratorial glint in his eye.

“One piece of advice, Miss Windslow,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t trust all the rumours you’ve heard about Eden. But remember this: everything here has a price, attention included.”

I swallow, mind racing. He straightens, that wolfish smile slipping back into place.

“See you tomorrow.”

I step back into the corridor, my heart hammering in my chest. For a moment, I feel as though I’ve passed an unseen trial, their test, whatever it may be, without even knowing I was being examined.

The uniform is tighter than I anticipated.

It’s made of black satin, cut high on the thighs and low at the neckline, sleeveless with a halter that fastens behind my neck.

With the heels they provided, I feel taller and more exposed, as if I’m pretending to be someone else.

Looking in the mirror, I hardly recognise myself.

My hair is slicked back, and my makeup is heavier than usual, with lips painted a bold red that demands attention.

The dressing room is compact, lined with sleek lockers and full-length mirrors.

Around me, other girls are getting ready, women who move as if they’ve done this countless times.

They don’t talk much, just touch up their lipstick, adjust their straps, and smile as if it's their armour.

One of them, a tall blonde with stiletto heels, meets my gaze in the mirror.

“Hey, it can be a little overwhelming at first, but you'll get used to it,” she advises, while applying mascara. “Just remember, don’t fall in love with the regulars.” I smile back politely, though I have no clue what she means.

Why would I fall love with a patron?

The music hums through me the moment I step onto the floor, a deep, bass-heavy rhythm that reverberates through my bones, seductive and commanding.

The room is bathed in a warm, opulent glow of gold and wine-red hues, casting an inviting yet mysterious ambiance.

The main bar thrums with a gentle, enticing energy, but it's the VIP level, secluded upstairs behind half-drawn curtains, that captures my attention.

Mr. Salvatore stands by the bar, a figure of authority with his hands clasped behind his back. With a subtle gesture, he beckons me over.

“Section C,” he instructs, his voice calm yet firm. “You’re shadowing tonight. Sofia will show you the ropes. Smile, be attentive, and don’t linger.”

Sofia, the blonde from the dressing room, materialises at my side, exuding a confidence I aspire to. Rocco tells her something in Italian and she nods before looking at me. “Come on, novellina,” she urges.

She guides me up the staircase to the VIP level, where the lights are dimmer, casting long shadows that add to the air’s weightiness. Here, the atmosphere shifts, becoming more intense, almost tangible.

The tables are occupied by men clad in sharp, tailored suits, their voices a low, murmuring symphony. They sport expensive watches that catch the dim light, and their laughter resonates like an undercurrent in the room. Most of the women here aren’t servers, they’re adornments, living ornaments.

Sofia slips behind one of the velvet curtains, and I follow, clutching a silver tray as if it were a lifeline.

The first table is straightforward. Polite smiles greet us. A bottle of whiskey and two glasses are requested. One man’s gaze lingers a moment too long on me, but he remains silent.

The second table presents a different challenge.

Two men sit in the booth, both sharply dressed, but the one on the left pulls my attention like gravity. Late thirties, dark hair combed back, olive skin, eyes so piercing they feel like a test. He doesn’t speak. He just watches me with quiet calculation.

The other man, older, flashier, maybe mid-fifties, is the one who smiles. He leans in slightly as I place the drinks down, and when I do, his fingers brush mine. Light but intentional.

“Bellissima,” he murmurs.

I withdraw my hand swiftly, and his lips curl into a smirk.

Across the room, Sofia’s eyes meet mine, and she mouths a silent command. “Don’t react.”

So, I don’t.

I straighten my posture, plaster on a smile, and continue serving. Yet, beneath my composed exterior, something stirs restlessly under my skin, an inexplicable sensation that grips me tight and refuses to be ignored.

The younger one though, keeps his gaze on me. He leans back, arms stretching along the booth behind him like he owns the air I’m breathing. There’s a dark aura around him, not quite as intense as Ares Russo, but just enough to make something inside me recoil.

I take a step back and clutch the silver tray against my torso like it’s protective shield. “Enjoy gentleman. Let me know if you need anything else.” I turn quickly, pretending I don’t hear the quiet chuckle that follows me.

But I feel it. Like oil on my skin.

I make it back to the bar without tripping, shaking, or throwing up, which feels like a win. Sofia hands me a tray of empty glasses, watching me over the rim of her own drink like she’s seen it all before.

“You okay?” she asks, casually.

“Yeah,” I lie. “That guy was... a lot.”

She arches a brow. “The one in the grey jacket?”

I nod. “And the other one. The one who didn’t speak.”

Her expression shifts, just slightly. “Oh, that’s Nicolai Moretti. He’s a regular here.”

The name doesn’t mean anything to me. Not really.

I frown. “You say his name like it’s supposed to hold some sort of significance.”

Sofia leans in, her voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s just say he’s not someone you want to draw attention from. Especially not the kind you just got.”

She straightens again, tossing back the rest of her drink before grabbing another tray. “Smile, rookie. First shift’s not over yet.”

And just like that, she disappears into the golden blur of the room.

But the name lingers.

Nicolai Moretti.

Looking back over my shoulder, I glance over at the table and find Nicolai watching me intently over the rim of his glass as he languidly sips his whiskey.

I have no idea who he is. But an unsettling instinct tells me I’m going to find out before the night is over.