Black Velvet and Lace

The bar was called Black Velvet & Lace.

Nothing about it was soft, nor elegant.

It was dark, loud in the quietest way, and unapologetically indecent. The kind of place your husband would condemn in a sermon—then visit on a business trip with someone who wasn’t his wife. The walls were black brick. The mirrors were stained with fingerprints. The booths looked like confessionals for sins you didn’t want forgiven.

Eden had passed it a hundred times before. Always in passing. Always in judgment.

Tonight, she walked in like she was the warning on the door.

Her heels snapped against the polished concrete. Her dress—black, backless, feral—moved like it knew this was war. She didn’t come to be asked if she was okay. She came to taste freedom. To get drunk on defiance. To find the version of herself she’d locked in a prayer closet a decade ago and finally give her the mic.

She wasn’t looking for anyone.

But she knew how to be seen.

Heads turned. A man spilled his drink. A woman with wine-dark lips raised her glass in silent recognition. There were no altar calls here, but Eden felt more honest in this darkness than she ever had in the light.

She slid onto a barstool like sin incarnate. Crossed her legs slow. Ordered whiskey—neat.

The bartender didn’t ask her name. He just nodded and poured.

Good.

She raised the glass to her lips and let it burn the back of her throat like a secret she no longer cared to keep.

“First time in?” a voice asked beside her.

She didn’t look. Not immediately.

“Do I look that obvious?”

“You’ve got that edge,” the voice said. Male. Rough. Confident. “Like someone who’s either about to start a fire… or already lit one.”

Eden turned.

The man was older than her. Unshaven jaw. Rolled sleeves. One hand wrapped around a glass, the other loose against his thigh. He looked like he didn’t flinch easy.

Not her type.

Exactly what she needed.

“And if it’s both?” she asked.

His smile was slow, sharp. “Then I hope you brought matches.”

She didn’t smile back. But she didn’t move either.

“You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who needs a man to light anything for her.”

“I’m not,” she said. “But I do like the heat.”

He tipped his head slightly. “Celebrating?”

She finished her drink before answering. Let the silence stretch like a thigh-high stocking.

“No,” she said. “Burying something.”

He watched her for a long beat.

“A marriage?”

“A decade,” she said. “Of silence. Control. Pretending I didn’t know better.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pity. Just nodded, like he understood what it meant to outgrow a life and light the match anyway.

“You made it out,” he said.

“Not yet.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper. “But I’m close.”

He offered his hand. “Callum.”

She stared at it. Then back at him.

“I didn’t come here to be saved.”

His smile didn’t waver. “Good. I’m not the saving kind.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“You ever burn a Bible, Callum?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Pages, yes. Covers take longer.”

Eden’s laugh was unexpected. From the belly. From somewhere older than her pain.

“I’ve got one in my trunk,” she said. “Leather-bound. Stained in all the right places.”

He leaned back. “You looking to make a point?”

“No,” she said, sliding off the stool. “I’m looking to stop making excuses.”