Chapter 4: THE GIRL WHO NEVER SAYS YES

The House of Solace breathed in twilight hush, the last violet threads of dusk dissolving into the velvet dark. A warm amber glow hummed low behind brocade curtains, casting silhouettes of bodies and smoke onto the walls. Jasmine moved like she always did at this hour...... not with haste, not with hesitation...... but with the slow elegance of a secret being kept.

She passed by the main parlor without glancing in, even though she felt the weight of eyes from within. Men lounged like softened wax across plush settees, their desire simmering just beneath the surface, held in check only by the rules of this place...... and by her refusal to be caught.

Her scent was a paradox...... gardenia and cigarette ash, innocence tangled with ruin. A client once said she smelled like a prayer whispered by a sinner. She had smiled then, slow and cruel, and walked away before he could offer his devotion.

They called her Jasmine, but never sweetly. Her name floated through the halls like an unanswered question. Everyone knew it, wanted it, but none could claim it.

She didn’t say yes.

That was her weapon, sharper than any heel or blade or blood-tipped nail. A girl in a brothel who never opened her door, who never let them touch, never whispered consent like a ribbon around a man's wrist. She offered only glances, cruel kindness, and the kind of laughter that made their teeth ache. She was the untasted fruit...... the price they could never quite afford.

Tonight, she wore red silk cut like a wound. It clung to her backless form and swayed with each step, a living whisper. Gold rings circled her fingers, her ears, her throat...... but no man owned the key to her. Not even the ones who tried hardest. Especially not them.

In the hallway, a man leaned too close. His breath reeked of brandy and wanting. “Just a minute, pet,” he slurred, reaching out.

She stopped.

Not in fear. Not even disgust. Just stillness...... deliberate, quiet as winter frost on warm skin. Her gaze slid toward him, eyes half-lidded and unblinking, and her smile was the slow peel of something dangerous.

“Are you offering me a minute, or trying to buy one?” she murmured, voice dipped in velvet and arsenic.

He blinked, uncertain now, already shrinking beneath her gaze. She let him stew in silence just long enough to feel the heat of his shame rising.

“Didn’t think so,” she said, and walked past, her bare feet silent against the mosaic tiles.

In the garden courtyard, beneath the tangle of jasmine vines and dying roses, she found Sarah sitting beside a brazier, puffing smoke like a half-god half-witch. Her curls were frizzed wild from the humidity, her skin damp with sweat and glamour.

“You’re late,” Sarah said without looking.

“I wasn’t expected.”

Sarah smirked. “You’re always expected. That’s your problem.”

Jasmine leaned against a stone column and pulled the pins from her hair. It spilled down like shadow and silk. She reached for Sarah’s cigarette without asking and took a long drag. The smoke curled between her lips like it belonged there, coiling slow and warm down her throat.

“I want a new room,” Jasmine said.

Sarah arched a brow. “Yours not gold enough for you?”

“No balcony.”

“Ah,” Sarah laughed softly. “And who’s out there tonight that you’re trying not to give a show?”

“Not trying.” Jasmine exhaled smoke. “Just tired of being watched.”

They sat in quiet then, two women carved from opposites...... Sarah all steel and spice, Jasmine all silk and salt. Yet the bond between them was thick as blood and wine. Sisters not by birth but by bruises.

From somewhere inside, a scream of pleasure rose and fell like a hymn. The walls of the House pulsed with life, with ache, with the wet, hot sound of bodies in rhythm.

Jasmine didn't flinch. She watched the moon instead, silver and whole, hanging heavy above the rooftop tiles.

“I said no to him again,” she said, after a while.

Sarah knew who without asking. Roger. The man with the wolf’s eyes. He came weekly now. Always asked for Jasmine. Always left without her.

Sarah didn’t speak right away. Just handed the cigarette back and watched Jasmine closely, like someone might watch a candle before it goes out or catches fire.

“You keep saying no,” she said, “and it’s making him crazy.”

Jasmine tilted her head, lips quirked. “Isn’t that the point?”

Sarah blew smoke through her nose, eyes gleaming. “You’re going to break something if you keep playing like that.”

“Let it break,” Jasmine whispered.

There was power in withholding. In silence. In letting the men of this world—alphas, tycoons, monsters in velvet cloaks—stand before her trembling with hunger...... only to find that her doors never opened. That her fire was not for sale. That her yes was worth more than any coin in their pockets.

They heard her laughter when she passed, and it haunted them more than any moan could. Men were used to women saying yes. Trained to hear it as a reward, a contract, an offering. Jasmine’s no wasn’t cruelty...... it was a mystery they couldn’t solve.

She rose from the bench and crossed the garden barefoot. Her steps stirred petals and crushed cigarette butts. Somewhere in the upper gallery, music began to rise...... a cello low and sorrowful, like a memory dressed in silk. The kind of song played for ghosts in red rooms.

A man stood there waiting. Not Roger. A different one. Tall, blonde, with a face too beautiful to trust. He held a coin between two fingers, rolled it like a trick.

“Your time’s worth tenfold,” he said.

Jasmine looked at him for a long, unreadable beat. Then smiled.

“Then come back when you’re rich.”

He blinked, once. Twice. And watched her vanish into the House like a whisper down a dark corridor.

Sarah laughed from the shadows.

Jasmine didn’t turn back.

She didn’t need to. She knew the sound of hunger when she heard it.