Chapter Three

Nyla learned quickly that nothing at The Velvet Embrace was ever simple.

Night after night, the routine stayed the same. She served drinks, smiled when required and performed when called just as she was thought. And every single night, the silver mask man, Maestro, was there quietly and watchfully and rarely spoke to anyone at all which unsettled her.

Sometimes she convinced herself she was imagining the attention. Other times she felt it so sharply that she nearly missed steps on the floor.

“Relax, he watches everyone.” Selene told her one evening when Nyla confessed her nerves. 

“But not like that,” Nyla murmured.

Selene only smiled and walked away.

The paychecks kept coming—ridiculously large, embarrassingly helpful—and Nyla told herself that was all that mattered. Tuition was covered. Bills were paid. Her father even laughed again when she brought home groceries without counting every naira.

Still, something about the masked man tugged at her peace.

Then came the night everything changed.

The club was packed, louder than usual. Nyla had just finished a routine on stage when she noticed the room shifting strangely—men checking their phones, whispering to one another, slipping out in twos and threes.

Within minutes, half the guests were gone.

She stood near the bar, confused, when Selene hurried over.

“Pack it up for the evening,” the manager said in a low voice.

“But it’s not even midnight,” Nyla replied.

Selene hesitated. “Maestro bought the club for the rest of the night.”

Nyla blinked. “He did what?”

“Paid every other client to leave,” Selene clarified. “Generously.”

A cold knot formed in Nyla’s stomach. “Is that even allowed?”

“Money allows a lot of things.”

Before she could respond, a waiter tapped her shoulder. “He wants you back on stage.”

Her pulse jumped. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

The room felt enormous and empty with only one audience member as everyone left.

Maestro sat in the center seat with his hands folded and his gaze fixed on her.

Nyla stepped onto the stage, trying to ignore the way her heart pounded. Then the music started again, slower and familiar.

She danced.

And danced.

When the song ended, she lowered her arms in relief and turned to leave.

“Again,” Maestro said.

She froze. “Excuse me?”

“I said again.” He gestured lazily toward the DJ booth. “Play it from the top.”

Nyla looked to the DJ, hoping for help. The man only shrugged and restarted the track.

Her mouth went dry. “My set is over.”

“Not tonight.”

Anger sparked through her fear. “You can’t just keep me here.”

“I bought the night, which means I bought your time.” He replied calmly.

The words landed like chains around her ankles.

Reluctantly, she began to move again.

One song became two. Two became three. Her feet ached, her legs trembled, and sweat gathered at the base of her neck.

Still, he didn’t look away.

By the fourth repeat, Nyla was furious.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath.

Finally, after what felt like forever, he lifted a hand.

“That will be all.”

Relief washed over her so suddenly she almost stumbled.

“Thank you,” she said tightly, stepping off the stage.

“Same time tomorrow,” he replied. But Nyla didn’t answer.

She stormed straight to Selene’s office.

“You have to do something,” Nyla demanded. “He kept me up there for almost an hour. My whole body hurts.”

Selene sighed, rubbing her temples. “I know.”

“So stop him.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because he owns more than half this building,” Selene said quietly. “And he pays enough to keep us all employed.”

Nyla stared at her. “So that’s it? I just have to do whatever he wants?”

“No, you can always quit.” Selene replied. 

The word hung heavy between them.

Quit.

Nyla pictured her father’s relieved smile, the rent receipts neatly paid and the tuition portal that as finally green instead of red.

“I need this job,” she whispered.

Selene gave her a sympathetic look. “Then you already have your answer.”

For days, Nyla avoided him as much as possible.

But avoidance was impossible in a place built around pleasing clients.

He kept requesting her, kept watching and kept testing the limits of her patience.

Until one evening, exhausted and worn thin, she made a decision she never thought she would.

If refusing didn’t work, maybe agreeing would.

It happened on a quiet Tuesday night.

The club was slower, the lights softer, the air heavy with rain outside and Maestro summoned her to the private room as usual.

Nyla walked in with her chin high.

“I’ll stay,” she said before he could speak.

His head tilted slightly. “Excuse me?”

“You asked before. I’m saying yes.”

Silence stretched.

“Interesting, what changed?” He murmured.

“Nothing,” she lied.

He studied her for a long moment. “Very well.”

“But I have a condition.”

“Name it.”

“We drink first.” Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to keep her voice steady. “I need to relax.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Agreed.”

Drinks were brought in. Glasses poured.

Nyla’s mind raced.

She didn’t trust him. Didn’t trust herself. And she absolutely didn’t trust this room.

So she did something reckless and desperate.

While his attention was elsewhere, she tampered with his glass—just enough to ensure the night would end differently than he expected.

No details or second thoughts.

Just survival.

They talked for a while—small, meaningless conversation. Then, slowly, Maestro’s words began to slur as his posture loosened.

At last, he leaned back in his chair and went completely still, falling asleep.

Nyla let out the breath she’d been holding.

Her heart thundered in her ears as she stood over him.

This was her chance.

For weeks she had wondered who hid behind that mask—what kind of man watched people the way he did, controlled rooms without raising his voice.

With shaking fingers, she reached out.

“I just need to know,” she whispered.

The silver mask came away easily.

And the world dropped out from under her.