A Rich Man’s Club

Chapter 5: A Rich Man's Club

Two Days Later

Marilyn’s hands couldn't stop shaking in the car, no matter how much she tried to calm herself.

Her dress that cost thousands of dollars felt itchy and prickly against her skin and she knew why.

The smoke. The fire. The reminder. The smell of burning bodies.

Victor leaned back in his seat and observed his wife who looked like she was seconds away from exploding into a full-blown panic attack.

“What's wrong with you, Marilyn?” He asked with the patience of a lit fuse.

Her heart was violently thudding against her ribcage as she tried to hold in the intense urge of throwing up her lunch.

“Must have been the sushi.” She lied, too quickly. “had one too many after shopping.”

But her eyes didn't lie.

Marilyn was staring straight ahead at something.

Victor followed her gaze and it landed on the performers outside the club.

The Fire-breathers and The Fire-spinners.

Victor sensed she told a lie because she told it in the most untrue way.

Marilyn was scared of fire.

He spun her to face him inside the luxury vehicle. His hands gripped her shoulders so painfully she hissed.

“Put yourself together. Do not humiliate me.”

That was enough to snap her out of it. Enough to remind her that The Branch was watching.

Five minutes later she was standing beside Victor in front of the glowing golden doors. The mask back in place.

The crowd inside “The Glass Room” shimmered like spilled champagne. Dangerous men and too-thin women dripping in diamonds, secrets, and silent deals.

Victor held Marilyn's hand tightly as they entered, like she was both his ornament and his warning label.

“Smile, Marilyn,” he murmured. “There are cameras and competitors.”

As if on cue, a camera flashed all of a sudden and startled her, but Marilyn was quick to turn it into a joke.

She smiled like it was stitched onto her.

The club glowed with moody lighting and dirty money. Gold railings. Crystal glassware. Waiters dressed in black like they were hired assassins.

Victor led her through the crowd toward a circle of wealthy men with wandering eyes and expensive watches. His business partners, investors, partners in crime.

“Gentlemen,” Victor said, voice as sharp as his tuxedo, “may I present my wife, Marilyn Fontaine.”

There it was on all their faces.

The look, the quiet scan from head to toe like she was a car being appraised at an auction.

“A beauty,” one of them said. “What are you feeding her, Victor?”

“Thirteen million in maintenance a year,” another joked. “Maybe I should get a young wife too.”

The men laughed. Marilyn did too. Polished. Painless. Empty.

Victor squeezed her waist possessively. “She’s more than pretty,” he said. “She’s obedient.”

Her stomach flipped. She kept smiling.

One man leaned in. Dorian King, the owner of the club, was builtm like a lion and dressed in blood-red velvet. “They say you were a waitress.”

“Not anymore,” Marilyn said sweetly. “Now I just serve a different kind of table.”

They all laughed and applauded her wit and sense of humor.

Victor beamed like she was a trained dog. “Isn’t she charming?”

Marilyn blushed. But inside, she was cracking.

Every hand that touched her waist. Every compliment wrapped in condescension. Every sip of overpriced champagne she didn’t want to taste.

She was a statue in silk.

She caught her reflection in a mirrored pillar; red lips, low-cut gown, vacant smile.

She looked like a masterpiece. But she felt like a crime scene. A big fat mess.

Confetti exploded in the club and she immediately spun around in the direction of the sound.

And that was when she saw him.

Cody.

Lounging on a couch in the VIP section, legs sprawled, drink in hand. His black shirt undone just enough to show a gold chain. A woman draped over his arm.

But he wasn't paying attention to her.

He was watching Marilyn.

Only her.

Their eyes met.

And the world shifted.

No one else in the club mattered. Not Victor. Not the men staring at her cleavage. Not the violinist playing sad jazz in the corner.

Just him.

She looked away.

But not before he smirked and raised a glass to her in mockery.

She felt bile rise in her throat and whispered something to Victor about needing to powder her nose.

Then she left.

She slipped into the corridor and past the velvet ropes, towards the bathroom.

She didn’t expect him to follow.

But of course he did.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind her.

Then… clicked again.

Locked.

Marilyn turned and there he was.

Cody was propped against the door like he’d been waiting a lifetime. The heat in his eyes said this wasn’t a coincidence.

“You shouldn't be here.”

“Why is that?”

“Victor doesn't know you're here. Get out.”

“I'm a VIP guest, love. You can't get rid of me that easily.”

She gripped the edge of the sink as if it could stop the painful memories from resurfacing.

Her Pyrophobia had been triggered by the performers outside. The ground beneath her was spinning.

I came to congratulate you for lying to my face like a pro.” He leaned closer. “That specialist in the hallway? Cute story. But you forgot I’ve seen lies my whole life. Hell, I was raised by one.”

Marilyn’s back hit the sink as Cody stepped into her space.

“Are you always this obsessed with what is your father’s?” she snapped.

He smirked. “Only when they taste like revenge.”

“I should scream,” Marilyn said quietly.

He stepped forward. “And I should care.”

Her spine pressed into the marble sink as he stalked toward her, slow and dangerous.

“Don't come any closer,” she whispered, trying to grasp onto what was left of her composure.

Cody smirked. “Then why aren’t you running?”

He was in front of her now. So close.

The space between them was thread-thin.

“You’re my father’s wife,” he said, voice low.

But his fingers were already at her waist. “Not my mother. Should I give a fuck?”

“And you’re a spoiled little boy with too much time and no self-control.”

“And you’re a liar wrapped in lingerie and silk diplomacy.”

He leaned in. “You’re putting on my gift right now, aren't you?”

She couldn't speak.

Cody was right. She had on the red lace beneath her bandage dress.

Marilyn’s lips parted. Her breath was unsteady.

“You want me,” he murmured. “You hate that you do. But it’s written all over your skin.”

She should slap him. She should walk out.

But she was frozen in place.

“You hate him,” Cody whispered. “And I hate him too. So tell me why we’re not already naked.”

His thumb brushed over her bottom lip.

“I could make you forget his name.”

Then he touched her. Fingers grazing her arm. Up, over her shoulder. A slow drag like a practiced tease.

She sucked in a breath.

“I could make you forget your own.”

And then—

He kissed her.

Hard. Filthy. Like he’d been dying for it.

And she kissed him back.

It was chaos. Clashing teeth, bitten lips, hands tangled in hair. Her fingers gripped his shirt. His thigh pressed between hers.

Her back hit the mirror.

He kissed like war. Like revenge. Like foreplay was a waste of time.

And Marilyn—Marilyn forgot everything.

Her husband vanished. Her mission disintegrated. Only his mouth mattered.

And still… she wanted more.

She reached for his belt buckle. He grabbed her wrist.

Their eyes locked in heat.

“Tell me to stop… or I’ll fuck you in your husband’s club bathroom. And I won’t be gentle.”