All Chapters of Heels & Handcuffs - Club Gold Trilogy: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The air in Club Gold hung thick with the scent of expensive perfume, sweat, and unspoken desires. Amanda navigated trough the throng of bodies still a bit wobbly on her feet, her stilettos clicking against the polished floor. The pulsing bass of the music vibrated through her, a constant reminder of the intoxicating, dangerous world she had willingly stepped into. Tonight, however, the usual thrill was muted by a knot of anxiety twisting in her stomach. She’d been summoned. Keith wanted to see her. The message had been delivered with the cold efficiency of the same darkness she had witnessed of him in the warehouse: “Club Gold. Playroom Seven. Midnight.” No explanation, no invitation, simply an order. And Amanda, despite her carefully cultivated independence, knew better than to ignore it. Playroom Seven was notorious even within the exclusive confines of Club Gold. Rumored to be Keith’s personal domain, it was a space where boundaries were blurred and fantasies were realized, or

Keith’s office was everything Amanda expected: opulent, imposing, and meticulously organized. Dark wood paneling lined the walls, displaying framed photographs of men she recognized as prominent figures in the underworld. A large, mahogany desk sat at the center of the room, polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the harsh overhead light. Keith sat behind it, leaning back in his leather chair, his expression unreadable. "Take a seat, Amanda," he said, gesturing towards a chair in front of the desk. Amanda hesitated for a moment, then walked over and sat down, her back straight, her eyes fixed on Keith. "I imagine you have a lot of questions," Keith said, his voice calm and controlled. "More than you can imagine," Amanda replied, her voice equally steady. "I want to know about my mother. Everything." Keith nodded slowly. "Isabella is.…a complex woman. She is beautiful, intelligent, and fiercely loyal. In the first couple of years after me starting this club she became my most trusted ad

Amanda. Three weeks have passed since that day in the training room. Three weeks of learning to be someone I never imagined I could be. My mornings start at dawn with physical training—running the estate's grounds until my lungs burn, then hand-to-hand combat with Dimitri, Keith's head of security. The Russian doesn't go easy on me. I have the bruises to prove it. Afternoons are for education. Keith hired tutors—a linguistics professor who's teaching me French and Italian, an etiquette coach who corrects my posture and table manners, even a sommelier who's been training my palate to distinguish between expensive wines. "You need to blend in with the elite," Keith explained on my first day. "That means knowing which fork to use, how to discuss art and politics, how to read the subtle power dynamics in a room." Evenings belong to Keith alone. Sometimes we train together—he teaches me sleight of hand, lock picking, how to move through a crowd without being noticed. His hands are pa

Amanda. Friday arrives too quickly and too slowly at the same time. I've spent the past two days in intensive preparation with Sofia and Dimitri. We've reviewed floor plans of Club Gold until I can navigate them in my sleep. I've memorized faces—Petrov, the bartender, known Colombo associates, rival organization members. I've practiced my cover story until it flows naturally: I'm Elena Volkov, daughter of a minor Russian businessman, in London to "experience the culture." "Remember," Sofia says as she helps me into the dress Keith selected, "you're not there to engage. Just observe and report. If Petrov or anyone else approaches you, be polite but forgettable." The dress is stunning—black silk that clings to curves I didn't know I had, with a neckline that's suggestive without being obvious. Keith had it tailored specifically for me, along with matching heels that add four inches to my height. I barely recognize myself in the mirror. "You look like you belong," Sofia says approv

Amanda. The estate's medical room smells like antiseptic and leather. I sit on the examination table while Keith hovers, watching the doctor clean the cut above my eyebrow with an intensity that's almost unsettling. "It's just a scratch," I say for the third time. "Really, I'm fine." "Three stitches is not just a scratch." Keith's voice is tight, controlled. Too controlled. He's been like this since we left the club—silent, dangerous, radiating barely contained violence. The doctor, an older man named Harrison who apparently handles all of Keith's organization's medical needs, works with practiced efficiency. I barely feel the needle as he stitches the wound closed. "You were lucky," Harrison says, applying a bandage. "Half an inch lower and he might have caught your eye. As it is, you'll have a small scar, but nothing disfiguring." "Battle scars," I try to joke. Neither Keith nor Harrison smile. "The bruising on your jaw and ribs will heal in a week or so," Harrison continues,