E l y s e hen Katrin drops by the bar with a request to go with her to her office, it’s early in my shift. The vibe in the main first-floor area at this time of the evening is more casual, post-work drinks than let’s go upstairs and get laid. The live performance hasn’t started yet—they have one every night here—and the music pouring through the space has a chilled beat. Pixie told me that the original London club is in a beautiful white townhouse in an upscale part of the city, whereas the vibe here is pure Meatpacking: industrial and hip. I guess you get a lot more space here than you would uptown, and it really is huge. I love the vibe in this part of town and in the club itself. Alchemy has a certain clientele: wealthy enough to afford its astronomical membership fees and liberated—or even hungry— enough to pay those fees for access to unlimited sex. Hungry is the correct term. There’s a hunger here among the members. They work hard and play hard. They have boundless appetites and even more boundless energy. Good for them. I, on the other hand, am dead on my feet. I took Sylvie to the hospital and then came into Manhattan for an e-commerce job where I modeled womenswear for J. Crew’s petite range. It’s tedious and tiring, and this kind of job always demands as many shots of as many outfits as they can possibly wring out of you. But as I’m five foot four, Gucci isn’t exactly banging my door down, so catalogue work is my bread and butter. That and a bit of face work— jewelry, makeup, Instagram cosmetic brands. Nothing that brings in the megabucks. Although my r ep at Vantage NYC, Olivia, tells me she’s submitted me for something that could be more exciting, so there’s that. She seemed enthused when she mentioned it, but I’ve learned the hard way that allowing yourself to hope when it comes to the more lucrative modeling contracts is as pointless as allowing yourself to hope that Prince Charming will ride through the streets of Bayonne on a white steed, seeking you out. It all comes down to probabilities. I was awful at math, but even I know that the thousands of insanely beautiful women on the top agencies’ books make my chances of landing a career-making job tiny at best. Anyway, I’m exhausted. So it’s with pleasure that I sink down into the armchair in Katrin’s office, a small room off the main bar. As she takes her seat in the chair across from me, I wiggle my toes inside my stilettos as discreetly as possible. “How are you settling in?” she asks. Her smile looks a little awkward, which makes alarm bells ring. Am I in trouble? Have I upset any of the members—any of my coworkers? No and no, as far as I can recall. I like Katrin. She doesn’t mess around, and I can’t imagine she tolerates anyone messing her around either, but that’s what makes her a good boss. She’s a straight shooter, from what I’ve seen. “I’m great, thanks,” I tell her. “I’m enjoying it a lot.” All true. “Good,” she says, leaning forward. “I’ll get to the point. I was approached by a member earlier today with a proposal for you on behalf of another member. I don’t love it, but I’m obligated to pass it on—and, actually, I’d rather be in volved than not, because this way I can protect you to the best of my ability.”
I stare at her, not processing what she’s saying, because I have no earthly clue what she’s talking about. “A proposal?” I r epeat. “What kind of proposal?” She hesitates, raking her dark, choppy bob with her fingers. It’s extremely cool, just like everything else about her. “One of our male members wants to have sex with you. He knows you’re not a host here, but he wants an hour in a private room with you, and he’s willing to pay ten grand for the privilege.” My brain trips over the words. Sex. Private room. Ten grand. So clinical. So aggressive. And so... outlandish. I stare at her as horror and mortification mount in my body, no doubt broadcasting themselves all over my face. “It’s unorthodox,” she continues quickly, “but not unknown. And, while this would be a private arrangement between two individuals and not something the club can officially facilitate, unofficially, there are things I can do to make sure you’re protected if you did want to move forward.” She makes it sound like I’m considering buying a car off some sketchy dealer, not letting a guy have sex with me for money. I’m so upended that I don’t know what question to ask first. Apparently, my subconscious makes the decision for me. “Who is he?” I ask. I don’t want to have sex with anyone, not like that—not for money. Not with someone I don’t know. But, obviously, I still want to know who he is. “I can tell you his identity,” she says, “but not much else. He’s insisting on an NDA, but I told him that letting you know his identity before you signed anything was non-negotiable. I spoke to him briefly on the phone after his little pimp reached out to me earlier.” She purses her lips. She seems de eply unimpressed with both guys, which makes me feel better. Katrin is liberated in a way I will never be—she runs a sex club, for crying out loud—so it’s reassuring to see her troubled. No one is forcing your hand here, I try to tell myself. We’re just having a conversation. “The member who’s interested in you is Sinclair Voss,” she admits finally, and my jaw literally drops open. “Yeah. Believe me, I know,” she says. I don’t know what she knows, because my mind is spinning like a tornado. Sinclair Voss. The most eligible bachelor in Manhattan, if Page Six is to be believed, wants to pay me for sex? I recall his intensity. Those eyes on me just last night, as shockedlooking as if I were speaking in tongues instead of laughing. Pixie’s warning: Apparently, he’s an animal. Totally feral. His question about whether I ever play upstairs. And this is his response to the No I gave him—to counter by trying to buy me? I don’t know what to think. I’m pissed, and I feel violated, but more than anything, I’m astounded. Like, come on. Plenty of guys hit on me at Alchemy, but this is Sinclair Voss we’re talking about. He can have any woman he wants. That blonde who was mooning after him, for instance.
Why doesn’t he just go after her? Does he really dislike being told No that badly? Perhaps that’s what Katrin is saying when she says I know. Perhaps she means all of it. Perhaps she finds it as peculiar as I do that he’d bother with a random bartender like me when she must know exactly what kind of man he is. I say the only thing I can think of, which is, “I don’t know what to say.” “Not surprised, hon,” she says. “And I want you to know I’m just the messenger. This is the last place you’d ever be judged for taking payment for sex, but it’s a lot.” I blow out a breath. “Did he... give you any more details?” “Not really. Honestly, the call was more me reading him the riot act. He couldn’t even do his own dirty work—got Felix Wolff to sound me out first, which is pretty fucking spineless.” She adjusts the pretty gold bangles on her slender wrist. “And I told him so, obviously.” I manage a weak smile at that. I kind of like Katrin going full mom on a guy like that. “But I’m here to remind you that you can say no with zero consequence to your job here —and if you ever feel pressured, by him or anyone, you come to me. You’re a bartender. None of them get to make you feel uncomfortable.” “Okay. Thank you.” I nod, trying to assimilate that information. This is just an offer. No one can or will make me do anything. Worst case, it’s just uncomfortable every time I have to serve him. I can live with that. “If you signed an NDA, you’d get more color,” she continues with a shrug. “He’s already mentioned having a boilerplate one emailed over—it’s very standard for guys of his status. Think of it as a cost of entry into their world. You can bet your ass every woman a Voss man has so much as pecked on the cheek gets slapped with it. That way, all that bad behavior remains their dirty little secret. Jeez, the skeletons that family must have in their closets.” “Right?” I say feebly, because, grubby and transactional as she makes that sound, I’m way more fixated on the grubbier and more transactional conc ept of having sex with Sinclair Voss for money. Oh my God. I feel dizzy—and nauseated. It’s so horrifying to even think about. I mean, what would I do? Show up to some room and blow him off? Bend over for him? I’d be so useless. And I’d for sure clam up and be unable to perform. I’d probably try to crawl under the bed. Obviously, he’s insanely, stupendously hot. That’s not the issue. He’s freaking gorgeous. It’s more that I don’t know him, and I have nothing in common with him, and how the hell are you supposed to walk into a room with a total stranger and feel okay taking off your clothes and allowing them to have sex with you? In what universe is that not horrifying? I realize I’m the outlier here, because that’s exactly what happens, every single night, in a club like Alchemy. But I’ve only sl ept with six people, and all of them were boyfriends or at least guys I dated for a few weeks. I knew them all. I felt comfortable with them. I do not feel comfortable with Sinclair Voss. Not even a little. He’s so intimidating. Guys like that are used to fancy, accomplished women— women who are a part of their world. If last night was any indication, I don’t even know how to speak to the guy without it being awkward, let alone do all kinds of X-rated things with him.
I bend my head and cover my face with my hands, my skin heating even more at the thought of actually having sex with Sinclair Voss. It’s so ridiculous a conc ept that my brain absolutely can’t process it. Sure, he’s a sexual creature—I can process that much. After all, he’s a member of this place, and Pixie had some strong words to say about his appetites. There’s no way you look like that and don’t take advantage of it. So while I suppose I can, in theory, imagine him fucking someone, I can’t imagine him fucking me. I can’t even imagine being in a room alone with him, for chrissakes, let alone naked and at his mercy and — Shit, shit, shit. “Hey.” Katrin puts a warm hand on my shoulder. “Don’t faint on me, okay? It’s all good. I wouldn’t have even bothered you with it, exc ept I figured that sum of money might give you pause.” She rubs my shoulder gently. “I know there are... challenges at home.” Her reminder of the quid pro quo Voss is offering stalls me, and I raise my head, looking bleakly up at her. My panicked brain is fixating on the sex part, the transactional nature of this indecent proposal, but she’s right. Ten grand. Ten grand. I won’t even think about how I could possibly be worth that much—I can’t. Honestly, I suspect I’m fine in bed at best, and that’s in the eyes of guys who are pretty normal when it comes to sex and don’t go to freaking sex clubs to get their kicks. Instead, I think about the money. The actual, physical sum he’s apparently proposing. Five figures in my checking account. Months and months of rent. Hospital bills, and physical therapy, and Fleur, and... just everything. “Ten thousand dollars,” I whisper, just to make sure I got it right, that I’m not hallucinating. I feel embarrassed saying it out loud, as if I’m daring for one single second to shoot for the stars, even if I don’t dare to think about what I’d have to do to earn it. Katrin removes her hand and tilts her head, studying my face. “That’s right. To be honest, I’m sure you could get more. You could always negotiate. Guys like him always lowball on the starting offer.” “No,” I say quickly. I’m almost positive I’m not saying yes to this, but I’m absolutely positive that, if by some freak twist of fate, I did say yes, I wouldn’t negotiate. There’s no way I’d put that kind of performance pressure on myself. “Fair enough.” “How would it even... work?” I shrug lamely and let my shoulders drop. I’m asking about all of it, every last detail of the machination. I am so far out of my d epth here that I’m drowning. But I guess she takes the question at face value. “You’d be the judge of that,” she says. “Obviously, we have extremely strict codes of conduct here, which he’ll be familiar with. All that stands if you guys have a private rendezvous, just like it would with any other hookup he has here. I would make it very clear to him that his membership was on the line if he overst epped by a fucking inch. He needs to know that his billions don’t count in my house—only his behavior does.” She holds up her hand and starts to tick items off her fingers. “NDA— that comes from him, like I said. Men like Voss like their women fully erasable from history. We could facilitate by placing his fee in escrow before
anything happens. My starting point at all times is to assume the worst of the guys here. I would strongly suggest you set boundaries in advance on paper. Safe word; hard limits. If you did want to move forward, you’d do so with the backing of the club. I’m here to protect you at all costs.” I feel so shaken, so vulnerable, by what feels like the most invasive, profane kind of offer, yet I can’t help but be struck how unusual this is. Here I am, a random bartender, sitting with the manager of a club whose members pay hundreds of thousands of dollars, and she’s making it sound as though I’m special and he’s the liability. Voss may be treating me as an object, no doubt about it, but Katrin is treating me as a person of value, as a human being who should be safeguarded. She doesn’t seem impressed by his wealth, his family name. If anything, they’re red flags for her. Honestly, it’s touching to be seen this way, particularly by an unwilling party who’s been caught in the middle of this situation. Her kindness and her badassery make me feel protected, even if I know that the best will in the world couldn’t protect me once I walked into that room with him and closed the door behind us. Even so. Ten thousand dollars is ten thousand dollars, and maybe, just maybe, it’s some kind of fucked-up breadcrumb from the universe at a time when breadcrumbs seem very few and far between. But what price would I have to pay? How does a man like Voss extract his pound of flesh? Indecent Proposal was a classic in our home when we were teenagers. Maman had a major thing for Robert Redford, so we watched all his movies a thousand times, but this one was a favorite. As we grew older, Sylvie and I would discuss what exactly happened on John Gage’s yacht. The suspense used to tear us apart—but in a good way. Now it’s tearing me apart in a super scary way. I’m spiraling; I can feel it. My stomach is flipping in protest. No, no, no. You cannot be considering this. Still, I meet Katrin’s eyes and ask, my voice quavering, “When do I need to decide?”