Semua Bab Shadows of Desire: Bab 1 - Bab 10

My palms still tingled from clutching the balcony railing as I descended the velvet-lined stairs once more. The room seemed both larger and more intimate than before. Everywhere I turned, there were whispered negotiations and gentle touches—a litany of people checking in with one another before surrendering. The tension in my chest eased fractionally; this was not a free-for-all, but a carefully choreographed dance. I was starting to understand that the real power here lay not in dominance, but in mutual respect.Marco reappeared at my elbow with uncanny timing, as if he could sense when I felt adrift. “How are you holding up?” he asked, guiding me toward a quieter corner where a small bar served champagne and sparkling water.“I feel like I’ve stepped into another universe,” I admitted, accepting a glass of water. The coolness of the glass against my fingertips was a welcome anchor to reality.“That’s fair,” he replied, his warm brown eyes crinkling. “Remember, everyone here consente

I hadn’t intended to approach him. All night, I had watched Victor St. Clair move through his club with a cat’s grace, always aware, always in control. People seemed to part for him instinctively, offering deference without fear. It wasn’t his wealth that commanded respect so much as the calm assurance radiating from him. I felt it, too—and felt drawn to it. My journalistic instincts, honed by years of watching and waiting, told me he was the key to this world, the central figure around which all of Elysium’s carefully choreographed dances revolved.After the workshop with Nadia and Rafael, Marco took my elbow gently and said, “Victor would like to speak with you, if you’re comfortable.”My pulse jumped. “Now?” I glanced across the room. Victor stood near a private bar, glass of bourbon in hand, talking quietly with Jennifer. He must have felt my gaze; he looked up, nodded, and said something to his companion before turning toward me. I felt a jolt of recognition, a silent acknowledge

I didn’t know what I expected when Marco invited me to see the private rooms. Part of me, the one shaped by movies and cheap novels, imagined silk-draped boudoirs and whispered threats. Part of me, the one shaped by my father's cautionary tales, feared something darker, more dangerous. What I found was a series of doorways along a hallway, each draped with a curtain that muffled sound but did not keep out the low hum of anticipation, the quiet hum of a secret world.“Remember,” Marco whispered as I followed him. “These are semi-private rooms. People inside agreed to be observed by a few. If you don’t want to watch, we'll keep walking.” He glanced at my notebook tucked under my arm and smiled. “And if you decide to write, remember their anonymity.”I nodded, my heart beating hard against my ribs. Journalistic curiosity warred with a budding sense of respect. I wasn’t here to expose; I was here to understand. This wasn't a story to be told with a headline, but with empathy. My pen felt

It was one thing to watch from the safety of Lena’s balcony and another to step onto the playing field myself. The decision to cross that line didn’t come in a rush; it settled slowly, like fog lifting on a quiet morning. I woke up the day after witnessing the Red Room flogging with an aching curiosity humming under my skin, a pull toward the profound intimacy I had seen. Victor had offered to guide me when I was ready. Every fiber of my reporter’s brain whispered caution, listing the countless reasons this was a terrible idea. Every fiber of my body, however, whispered, Why not?That morning was a blur of caffeine and pacing, my thoughts a whirlwind of what-ifs and possibilities. I replayed every scene I’d ever watched, every conversation I'd had. I thought of Nadia and Rafael's calm authority, of Jennifer's gentle hand during aftercare, and of Leo's quiet admission of freedom. It wasn't about the act itself, I realized. It was about the trust, the carefully constructed safety net th

The night after my first scene, I sat in my apartment with my laptop open and my notebook spread across the kitchen table. The city outside my window hummed its usual mechanical lullaby, but inside my mind, there was a roar, a conflict of loyalties and a confusion of identity. The blank document stared back at me, the cursor blinking like an impatient heartbeat, demanding I start, demanding I explain, demanding a story.*How do I write this?* I asked myself. *Should I?*I’d come to Elysium to capture a story—some exposé on the city’s secret erotic underworld. What I had found instead was a community built not on shadows but on trust, negotiation, and care. The sensational headline that would’ve sold clicks now felt like a betrayal, a cheap shot at people who had shown me nothing but honesty and respect. I thought about Victor’s warning that night in his office, his eyes sharp and serious: “There’s a difference between observing and experiencing. I don’t encourage people to cross that