Six: The Price of Velvet Promises

Lillium Roosevelt

As night deepened, thunder rolled across the heavens like a warning, the storm clouds overhead pulsing with energy. Lightning flashed, harsh and fast—like the snap of a camera shutter—casting eerie silhouettes across the city skyline. Shadows danced across wet pavement, distorted and trembling.

I sat silently in the passenger seat of the taxi, clutching the edges of my jacket, my nerves crawling beneath my skin. Raindrops streamed down the window in thin, weeping trails, each one catching the flashes of lightning as if the sky itself were crying. My reflection in the glass looked pale, lost, and hollow.

I don’t want to do this.

But the image of Tom—motionless in that hospital bed, tubes snaking out of his body, machines beeping steadily in a rhythm that mocked life—haunted me like a ghost. Then there was Rosetta, Donny… I couldn’t shake the gnawing fear that they might be next. Dominus Vane had made his message clear, and he didn’t deal in mercy.

He’d crippled Tom first, a brutal display of power, a demonstration of what happened to those who dared to even think about crossing him. Rosetta and Donny were collateral, whispers of their misfortune reaching me like poison darts. Accidents, they said. Unfortunate circumstances. But I knew better. I knew Vane was tightening the noose, reminding me of his reach, of the fragility of life when held in his hand.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. I wasn’t here by choice. I was here because I had no other path left. He had meticulously, cruelly, stripped away every option, leaving me with only this one, this desperate, terrifying act.

With a deep breath, I closed my eyes, letting the muffled sound of the rain soothe the pounding in my chest. This is the only way, I told myself. I will pay this debt. I will end this nightmare.

The taxi rolled to a stop with a soft lurch. I opened my eyes to see black-suited men stationed like statues around a sleek, discreet backdoor entrance. Cold professionalism in their posture, hidden menace in their eyes. The back door of the Elysium Club—just like Conrad said.

"Thank you," I murmured to the driver, shoving the cash into his hand before stepping out into the deluge.

Rain hit my face like tiny needles. It plastered my hair to my forehead and soaked through my thin jacket in seconds. I sprinted toward the door, jacket flaring behind me, shoes splashing in shallow puddles. One of the guards stepped forward, his bulk nearly blocking the entrance.

“State your purpose,” he demanded, voice clipped and authoritative. His eyes, dark and unreadable, bored into me.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Conrad Sterling,” I said, my voice unsteady as I fumbled in my pocket and handed him the crimson card card Conrad had given me. It gleamed under the rain like a talisman. My only way in.

The guard examined it, scanning something on the back with a small device. Then he looked up.

“Name?”

“Lillium. Lillium Roosevelt.”

He nodded, checked a digital tablet in his hand. A beat of silence, thick with the oppressive atmosphere of the club, followed. I could feel the rain trickling down my back, the cold seeping deep into my bones. Fear, cold and sharp, threatened to paralyze me. I fought it back, reminding myself why I was here, who I was doing this for.

Finally, the guard lowered the card. “Very well, Mr. Roosevelt. Mr. Sterling is expecting you. Please follow me.”

I stepped in behind him. The door clicked shut behind us, sealing out the storm. Inside, the air was warm, tinged with perfume, smoke, and something metallic—like blood and money. A shiver crawled down my spine, a stark contrast to the sudden heat that washed over me. This wasn't just a club; it was a sanctuary, a gilded cage for secrets and sins.

The hallway was dim, shadows crawling across the walls like they had a life of their own. Neon lights pulsed faintly beneath the floor, glowing with every footstep. The effect was unsettling, as if the very ground beneath my feet was breathing. I stayed close behind the guard, nerves coiled tight in my stomach. He reeked of stale cigarettes and power, and I clung to the small comfort his presence offered. Each step echoed, amplified in the narrow space, each beat a drum of impending doom.

As we moved deeper into the belly of the club, music began to swell—a low, seductive thrum that vibrated in my bones. It was a primal rhythm, a heartbeat that promised both danger and delight. The air thickened, the scents intensified, weaving a tapestry of temptation. Then the hallway opened up, and I stepped into a surreal dream of vice and abandon.

Lights flashed from above in shifting colors—reds, blues, purples—painting the sea of bodies in a hypnotic wash. People writhed on the dance floor like creatures possessed, their movements frantic, desperate. Others leaned close in booths, whispering secrets with hands wandering over skin. Men in velvet suits laughed with women in little more than glitter and heels, their eyes glazed with intoxication. The scent of sweat, smoke, and champagne was overwhelming, a heady cocktail that threatened to pull me under.

I stared, stunned, as a woman laughed too loudly, collapsing into a man’s lap with a syringe still tucked between her fingers. Her skin was pale and fragile, her pupils blown wide. He didn't react, didn't flinch. He simply stroked her hair, a vacant smile plastered on his face. The casual acceptance of such blatant disregard for life, for self-preservation, sent a jolt of cold fear through me. This wasn't just a party; it was a slow, stylish suicide.

The guard pushed forward through the chaos, his broad shoulders carving a path through the throng. I followed, swallowing my panic, trying to remember the reason I'd agreed to this madness. Eyes followed me—hungry, assessing. I lowered my head, trying to shrink into myself, to become invisible. But that only seemed to make me more visible, drawing unwanted attention like a moth to a flame. I felt the weight of their gazes, the subtle calculation of my worth, my vulnerability. I was fresh meat in a den of wolves.

Two men in tailored suits stepped into my path, blocking my way. The air around them reeked of expensive cologne and something sharper, like desperation.

“Well, well… fresh meat,” the one in a green jacket murmured, swirling whiskey in his glass. He was slick, the kind of man whose charm felt like a trap. “What’s your name, doll?”

His hand reached for my cheek, the gesture familiar and unwelcome. My stomach tightened.

I froze. My voice caught in my throat, the carefully rehearsed greeting turning into a silent plea for escape. My mind raced, calculating distances, escape routes… anything. I was alone, cornered in this unfamiliar place, and the predatory gleam in their eyes told me this wasn’t going to be a friendly conversation.

But before he could touch me, a man appeared between us like a specter—tall, broad, silent. He wore a brown leather jacket, scuffed and worn, that looked like it had seen its fair share of battles. A black mask covered the lower half of his face, obscuring his mouth, and a black hat was pulled low over his eyes, casting his upper face in shadow. His presence radiated quiet threat, a contained danger that made the air crackle. He didn't say a word, didn't even move, yet the temperature in the alley seemed to drop ten degrees.

The two men chuckled, a nervous, brittle sound, and stepped back, though not without a leer. The one in green mumbled something about "maybe later" before they melted back into the crowd spilling from the club's entrance.

The masked man turned to me, close enough that I could smell the crisp scent of cedarwood and something smoky, like a dying campfire. It was a primal, comforting scent that cut through the cloying cologne of my previous tormentors. A compass pendant rested against his chest, nestled against the dark leather of his jacket, catching the flickering neon light. It spun silently as he moved. His eyes—dark and unreadable behind the mask—met mine for a heartbeat, and in that fleeting connection, I saw something… not pity, but understanding. A shared knowledge of the shadows lurking just beyond the edge of the light.

Before I could speak, a hand grabbed my arm and tugged me away. I stumbled after the guard who had been escorting me through the labyrinthine club, the pulse of the music vibrating in my very bones.

“Don’t stop,” he said sharply, his voice a low rumble. “Eyes forward. Stay close. This place can smell fear—and the predators here are always hungry.”

My heart thundered in my chest as I quickened my steps, the thrum of the music chasing me like a heartbeat. Each note seemed to amplify my anxiety. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, cheap cologne, and something else… something metallic and unsettling. I’d heard whispers about this place, the Obsidian Mirror. A haven for the elite, a den for the depraved. I wasn’t sure which I feared more.

As we reached the stairwell leading to the private suites above, I took one last look over my shoulder. The crowd was a swirling kaleidoscope of faces, but one figure stood out. The mask man. His eyes, visible through the narrow slits, were still fixed on me, burning with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

The masked man was still there—watching.

We ascended a sleek spiral staircase, the sound of revelry below fading with every step. The air grew colder the higher we climbed, quieter—like the calm before a storm. My boots echoed faintly against the metal steps, the only sound between us. The guard didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. I was too afraid to stray. I imagined those white eyes boring into my back, following my every move.

At the top of the stairs, we reached a narrow hallway lined with polished ebony doors, each one guarded by a red sensor, like a sentinel guarding secrets. The lights here were softer, more refined—no longer meant to blind, but to suggest elegance. Wealth. Power. The air itself hummed with a palpable tension, a hushed anticipation that made my teeth ache.

We stopped at the last door on the left. It was unmarked, unadorned, its very simplicity speaking volumes. The guard pressed his thumb to a hidden panel. A soft click, then the door swung open, revealing a dimly lit room beyond.

“Mr. Sterling is expecting you,” he said without emotion. His voice was flat, devoid of any hint of warning or reassurance. I felt like a lamb being led to slaughter. He stepped aside, the open doorway an invitation and a threat all in one. I hesitated, my hand trembling as I reached out to steady myself against the cold, ebony doorframe.

I stepped through the threshold—and the door shut quietly behind me. A soft click, barely audible over the pounding rain outside, sealed me in.

The room was nothing like the chaos below. The club throbbed with bass and bodies, a frenetic energy fuelled by desperation and cheap liquor. Up here, though, it was serene, almost eerily so. Velvet drapes framed the wide windows, their glass fogged with condensation, obscuring the glittering cityscape beyond. A grand piano rested in the corner like a sleeping animal, its ebony surface gleaming in the soft light. Bookshelves lined the walls, an incongruous mix of leather-bound classics and more modern fare, interspersed with sculptures I didn’t recognize—angular, brutal, expensive. They felt like silent, watchful sentinels.

And there, by the window, stood Conrad Sterling.

He was pouring two glasses of bourbon, the bottle a vintage I couldn’t even guess. The light caught the amber liquid as it swirled into the crystal, a miniature storm contained within glass. He turned as I entered, his expression smooth, unreadable. His suit was immaculate, a dark charcoal that swallowed the light. His hair was neatly combed, not a strand out of place. He was a study in controlled elegance, utterly detached from the pandemonium just a floor below. He looked like he'd stepped out of an old movie or a billionaire's catalog.

“Lillium,” he said warmly, his voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated in the stillness of the room, as if we were old friends. “You’re right on time.”

I stood awkwardly just inside the door, soaked from the rain. The scent of smoke and cheap perfume from downstairs still clung to me, a lingering reminder of the world I was trying to escape. My coat clung to my body like a second skin, heavy and damp. Every nerve ending in my body was screaming a warning.

He walked toward me, extending the glass. The bourbon smelled rich and smoky, promising a temporary oblivion. “You look... haunted. Sit. Drink.”

I didn’t take the glass. The thought of it burning down my throat, numbing the fear that was clawing at me, was almost tempting. But I couldn’t afford to lose my edge. “I’m not here to drink.”

He paused, amused. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. “Of course you’re not.” He was enjoying this, this power dynamic, this dance.

He placed both glasses on the sleek glass table, the soft clink echoing in the quiet. It sounded almost accusing. Then he gestured to the armchair across from his, a plush, inviting thing that looked like it would swallow me whole. I hesitated for a moment, weighing my options, of which I realized there were very few. Before stepping forward and sitting down, careful to keep my posture straight even though my hands trembled in my lap. I smoothed down my pants, a pathetic attempt to regain some semblance of control.

My eyes scanned the room—every luxurious detail felt like a trap. The shadows seemed to close in around the walls, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was somewhere I was never meant to be. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

"Promise me I’ll be alright,” I said softly, my voice barely more than a breath. The words were directed at the empty air, a desperate plea into the void. I needed reassurance, even if it was just from myself.

Conrad turned his gaze toward me, his eyes narrowing slightly—not in suspicion, but in something akin to intrigue. Then he gave me a small, disarming smile. It felt rehearsed, but not cruel, more like a practiced social maneuver. “You’ll be alright, Lillium,” he said as he sat opposite me, crossing his legs with an effortless grace. “So. You’ve made your decision.”

I looked away, shame curling in my stomach like a venomous snake. The weight of my debt, my mother’s hospital bills, pressed down on me, suffocating me. My dreams of culinary school, of a life beyond this… this desperation, were fading. “I don’t have a choice.”

He noticed my hands, the way they wouldn’t stop moving—fidgeting, tugging at my sleeve. “You’re nervous,” he said gently, almost as an observation rather than a judgment. “That’s normal. But trust me—you’ll adjust. Everyone does.” His voice was smooth, reassuring, the kind of voice that could lull you into a false sense of security.

I nodded slowly, willing my hands to stay still. "I hope so," I managed to whisper.

“Let’s begin, shall we?” he said, reaching for a pen and a single sheet of crisp paper from the drawer beside him. The pen gleamed silver in the soft light. "Here at the Elysium Club, discretion and quality are everything. I ensure every... prospective companion meets our health standards. Clean bills of health. No exceptions."

He paused for emphasis, his gaze locking with mine for a brief, unsettling moment. “And just so we’re clear, I don’t pay you. I’m not your employer. I’m your broker. I connect you to clients who do pay—handsomely, if you know how to handle them.”

His eyes were still on the paper, scribbling something down in neat, practiced strokes. The scratching of the pen was the only sound in the room. Then he added casually, “I already had your medical records reviewed. You're clean. Healthy. Which is good."

That snapped my attention to him. The blood drained from my face. “Wait—you checked my medical records?” The invasion felt raw, violating. This wasn't just about a job; it was about control.

He looked up, unfazed. “Of course. You’re walking into something serious, Lillium. I had to be sure.” His eyes slowly moved over me, clinical but curious, assessing me like a piece of art to be appraised. “Besides... I found you interesting.”

The word hung in the air, thick with unspoken meaning. Interesting how? Interesting because I was desperate? Interesting because I was young and naive? Interesting because I was vulnerable?

Fear coiled tighter in my stomach. Then, without warning, he asked, “When was the last time you had sex?”

I froze. My mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out. The question hit me like a slap, not because of the words—but because of what they meant coming from him.

When I didn’t answer, he tilted his head, studying me like a rare insect pinned under glass. His gaze, sharp and intelligent, dissected me layer by layer. And then, a soft chuckle slipped from his lips.

“Wait…” He leaned back, realization dawning across his face. “Don’t tell me—you’re a virgin?”

Heat flooded my face, a crimson tide rising from my chest to stain my cheeks. I looked down, hiding my face from him. I couldn’t bring myself to answer. The silence hung heavy, punctuated only by the faint hum of the city far below. This was it. My carefully constructed facade was crumbling.

Conrad laughed, a sound that was part disbelief and part fascination. “Well, now that’s unexpected. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

I shifted my weight, the silk fabric of the dress clinging uncomfortably to my clammy skin. “I didn’t think it mattered,” I muttered, the words barely audible.

“Oh, it matters,” he said, his tone somewhere between amusement and calculation. He steepled his fingers under his chin, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Inexperience is a double-edged sword. Some clients… they'll find that incredibly appealing. The forbidden fruit, so to speak. Others, not so much. They expect a certain level of… expertise.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Are you sure you want to do this? Because, with all due respect, it’s hard to sell confidence when you’ve never even—”

“I’m a virgin down there,” I interrupted, raising my eyes to meet his, though my voice still trembled. I gestured downward, then added, “But not here.”

I pointed to my mouth.

The words hung in the air, a deliberate shockwave meant to disrupt his assumptions. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. It was a gamble, a desperate roll of the dice.

Conrad blinked. For a moment, he seemed genuinely taken aback. The amusement that had been dancing in his eyes flickered, replaced by something else… something akin to respect, perhaps? Or maybe just morbid curiosity.

Then he let out a low whistle, his eyebrows lifting as a slow grin formed on his face. "Well. That's... unexpected."

Conrad sat back in his chair, nodding slightly, impressed in spite of himself. “So what you’re saying is—oral experience only?” he asked, clearly entertained. The amusement in his voice, the way he tilted his head, felt condescending, like I was some kind of exotic species he'd just unearthed.

I bristled, tired of being looked at like a curiosity behind glass. "Can we just get on with this? I said I'd do it. I don't need you to turn it into a game." My voice was sharper than I intended, but I was running on fumes, a cocktail of desperation and simmering resentment.

He held up a hand, placating. "Fair enough. No games." But he was still smiling, a knowing, slightly lascivious curl of his lips that sent a shiver of unease down my spine.

"Look, Lillium," he said, his tone softening, dipping into that well of practiced empathy he used so effectively. "You don't have to prove anything to me. What matters now is how you carry yourself. Confidence. Composure. Mystery. Some clients care about experience, but most care more about the illusion."

Illusion. That was the currency we traded in here. Not pleasure, not intimacy, but the carefully crafted fantasy of it. I stared at my hands, calloused and worn, and wondered if I could even pull it off.

He tapped the paper in front of him, a profile I hadn't yet dared to read. "I'll pair you with someone tonight," Conrad said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as he took a sip. The clinking of the ice was the only sound in the room for a moment. "He's a billionaire—or at least that's what he insists on being called. But he's more than that. Powerful. Ruthless. One of the most influential men in the country."

My stomach clenched. Billionaire, powerful, ruthless. The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. He paused deliberately, letting the name hang in the air like a blade. “Adam Lewiston.”

My blood turned to ice.

I knew that name. He wasn’t just rich—he was legendary. A household name. His empire stretched beyond New York—real estate, fashion, media, even whispers of international arms deals. The man was untouchable.

“Adam Lewiston?” I echoed, the disbelief thick in my voice. “One of the richest men in all of America?”

Conrad gave a small, confirming nod. “The one and only.”

He leaned forward now, his voice low and firm. “But if you’re going to face him… you need to promise me something.”

I looked up, unsure if I wanted to hear it.

“You do whatever he asks. No questions. No hesitation. You just obey.”

My throat tightened. I could already feel the weight of that promise—what it might cost me. But I had no room to bargain. Not anymore. My desperation was a tangible thing, thick enough to choke on.

“I promise,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Conrad smiled—small and satisfied, like a fisherman who'd just snagged a particularly stubborn salmon. “Good.”

He let that moment settle before his gaze swept over me with surgical precision. “But first…” He paused, lips curving slightly, “We need to fix your look.”

I glanced down at myself instinctively—jeans, jacket, faded shirt still damp from the rain. Just moments ago, this outfit had felt like comfortable anonymity. Now, it felt like a brand of shame.

“What’s wrong with how I look?” I asked, suddenly defensive.

He raised a brow, smirking like a man who’d seen this a thousand times. “You look like someone whose biggest fashion risk is deciding between sneakers and boots.”

My jaw tightened. I felt the familiar heat of indignation rising in my chest. I wasn’t a mannequin, a walking advertisement. I was… me.

“Your hair’s a mess, like you lost a fight with a wind tunnel. That outfit? Street charity chic. If you walk into the Elysium lounge looking like that, no client will glance at you twice—unless it’s to hand you a five-dollar bill.”

His words were daggers sheathed in velvet sarcasm. I clenched my fists, heart stinging from the insult. I hadn’t asked for this. I hadn’t wanted this. But here I was, being dissected by this impeccably dressed… gargoyle.

“Are you even human?” I snapped, more hurt than angry.

Conrad chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Human enough to know that appearances matter. Especially when dealing with someone like Lewiston.”

The sleek black phone gleamed under the harsh office lights, a monument to power and influence. He picked it up, his fingers dancing across the keypad with a speed that spoke of years spent commanding the world around him. “Call the glam team. Tell them to bring the works—hair, makeup, wardrobe. ASAP.”

He hung up, the click echoing in the sudden silence. He turned back to me, his gaze sharp and assessing, like a sculptor appraising a block of raw marble. “They’ll be here in ten. Just stay put.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. “But I can’t afford—” The words tumbled out, raw and panicked. My meager savings wouldn't even cover the parking f*e in this part of town, let alone a high-end makeover.

He held up a hand, stopping me mid-sentence. A subtle gesture, yet it held the weight of absolute authority. Then, with deliberate grace, he adjusted the cuffs of his impeccably tailored suit jacket. The fabric whispered, a sound that screamed wealth. “Relax. This one’s on me. Consider it… an investment.”

The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Investment. In what, exactly?

He started toward the door, a predator moving with effortless control. He paused, his hand resting on the cool metal of the doorknob, looking back at me. For the first time since I'd stepped into this opulent office, I saw something oddly close to kindness flickering in his eyes. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

“So sit tight, Lillium. Tonight changes everything.”

And just like that, he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft, decisive thud.

I sat in silence for a long moment, staring at the door he’d disappeared through. My own jeans and faded shirt felt grotesquely out of place in this sterile, elite modern space. I was a weed pushing up through concrete, a jarring anomaly in a world of polished perfection.

Tonight changes everything.

The phrase reverberated in my mind, a persistent echo that chased away any lingering hope of normalcy.