this is an unedited work of art.
FURE
Nova City sheds its corporate skin after midnight. The Ascent towers behind me, their lights dimming as the respectable go to bed. Ahead, the streets narrow, neon lights multiply, and the Undercity stirs to life like a creature waking from sleep.
“This is going to be incredible,” Ernest says from the passenger seat. My cousin has been vibrating with energy since I picked him up. “I’ve waited three months for this. Three months of background checks and interviews and—”
“And my name on the line,” I remind him. “If you embarrass me—”
“I won’t. I swear. I’m cool. I’m very cool.”
He is not cool. He’s practically bouncing.
I take the next turn onto a street with no name, past a building with no address. You don’t find Club Nova on a map. You find it because someone brought you, and they only bring you if you’re worth the risk.
My father’s gift, though he’d never phrase it that way. A networking opportunity, he called it, when he sponsored my membership five years ago. A place where deals happen that can’t happen anywhere else. I stopped attending regularly three years in. The masks felt suffocating. The anonymity felt like a lie.
But I kept the mask.
The Venetian piece sits heavy in my jacket pocket now. Black lacquer, gold trim, a gift from a client whose deal I closed at two in the morning in one of the private rooms. I should have thrown it away when I stopped coming. I kept it instead. Didn’t ask myself why.
I know why now.
The parking structure swallows the car. Ernest’s eyes are wide, trying to absorb everything—the unmarked elevator, the attendant who takes my keys without speaking, the air change when the doors close. Heavier. Charged.
“Remember the rules,” I say as we descend. “Don’t stare. Don’t approach anyone without invitation. Don’t—”
“I know, I know. You told me countless times.”
“Don’t embarrass me.” I slip on my mask.
The weight settles. The scowl settles with it—same expression that’s saved me in boardrooms and courtrooms and every uncomfortable social situation my father has ever thrust me into. Behind the mask, I can be anyone. Behind the mask, I don’t have to be Chief Edoja’s perpetually disappointing son, still unmarried at thirty-two, still chasing approval I’ll never receive.
The elevator opens. And I literally hear Ernest suck in air and forget to release it.
I don’t blame him. The transformation from the street to this is crazy. Outside, Club Nova is a forgotten warehouse in a forgotten block. Inside, it’s velvet and shadow, gold light pooling on surfaces that seem to drink it in. The music doesn’t play so much as it lives in the walls—a pulse you feel in your chest, your throat, the base of your spine.
Bodies move languorously as no one rushes here. No one needs to prove they belong. Regulars drift like predators, languid, certain. Staff circulates with drinks that never empty. Masks are everywhere—some elaborate, some simple, all serving the same purpose.
Anonymity. Freedom. Permission.
Shit.
“Put on your mask,” I say through clenched teeth.
Ernest fumbles with the simple black domino I’d sent to him. His excitement is gauche. Anyone can see he’s new. His eyes are too wide. Smile’s too eager. He’s practically vibrating as we cross the threshold, taking in the chandeliers dripping crystal, the servers in their fitted black, the air thick with expensive perfume and whispered secrets.
“This is—” he starts.
“Don’t,” I cut him off. “Don’t gawk. Don’t exclaim. These people can smell desperation, and desperation here is worse than poverty.”
He swallows hard. Nods. Tries to compose his face to look bored.
The club’s magic settles over me like a second skin. A subtle enchantment that makes everything feel both more real and less consequential. Names spoken here won’t be remembered clearly. Faces seen behind masks will blur in memory. It’s why the powerful come. It’s why they stay. The freedom of anonymity is worth more than money to men who have everything except the ability to be truly themselves.
A server appears at my elbow. “Counsel. It’s been some time.”
“It has.”
“Your usual table?”
“Not tonight. Just the bar.”
Ernest is craning his neck, taking in the room. Politicians I recognize from magazine covers. A CEO whose wife thinks he’s at a conference in Geneva. Old money who reside at the Harbor sitting in corners where they’ve sat for decades, watching newcomers with bored contempt.
And then there are the performers.
The Ladies and Lords of the House move differently from the guests. They carry the room’s attention like a garment, wearing it comfortably. They choose their partners, not the other way around. They see things no one else sees—what you want before you know you want it.
“Oh,” Ernest breathes. His gaze has snagged on a group near the stage. One of the women laughs and gestures him over.
“Go,” I say. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That leaves a lot of room.”
He’s gone before I can respond, practically tripping over his own feet to reach them. I watch him fold into the group—a strip poker invitation, based on the cards being shuffled—and cringe internally. He’ll learn. They all do.
I turn back to the bar. Order a whiskey.
She’s not here tonight.
It’s an unwelcome thought, so I push it away.
I scan the room instead. Take inventory. The Curator is nowhere to be seen, but that’s normal—they appear when they choose to, and they choose rarely. The private elevator in the corner catches my eye. I’ve never used it. Asked about it once. “The Penthouse,” a colleague said. “You only know what goes on there when you’re invited.”
My whiskey sits untouched. The ice melts slowly. I should leave. I have briefs to review, a motion to draft, Oreva’s situation to handle. But I stay. Watch the dancers on stage. Watch the couples disappearing into private rooms. Watch the door like I’m waiting for someone.
Six months ago.
The memory surfaces unbidden, sharp as broken glass.
A woman with a nose ring that caught the amber light. Puffy lips curved into a smile that was equal parts invitation and challenge. Movements so practiced they looked effortless—hips swaying, hands trailing, every gesture premeditated to make a man forget his own name.
She’d selected me from across the room. Walked through the crowd like she was parting waters, never glancing back to see if I followed. Of course I followed. Every man in the room would have followed.
The private booth she led me to was small, intimate, lined in velvet so dark it swallowed sound. She’d pushed me into the seat and stood before me, just out of reach.
“Why so angry,” she’d said.
“I look angry?”
She’d let out a soft, tingling laugh. “You do… I’ve been watching you.”
The lap dance that followed left me hard for days. She knew exactly where to touch, where to avoid, how to build anticipation until I was gripping the armrests to keep from grabbing her. She whispered promises against my skin—what she could do, what she wanted to do, what she might consider doing if I came back.
Then she stopped. Right at the edge of everything. Pulled back with a maddening smile.
“Come back,” she’d said. “Maybe next time you’ll earn the rest.”
I’d left my business card tucked into her costume like a desperate fool. She never called. I told myself I didn’t care—that she was just another performer, another masked fantasy, another body in a club full of bodies.
I’m still telling myself that. Six months later, in a city of millions, and I still think about the curve of her smile. The scent of mint on her breath. The way she looked at me like she could see through every wall I’ve ever built.
Fuck it.
I down the whiskey in one burning swallow. Signal for another. The bartender pours. The ice cracks. The music transitions into a slower, darker rhythm and the crowd adjusts to match—bodies moving closer, conversations dropping lower.
She’s not here. She’s probably never coming back. She was one night of almost, and I need to stop—
The scent hits first. Mint. Vanilla… And white musk?
Then the voice, directly behind me, close enough that her breath moves the air against my ear.
“Want to use the bathroom?”
Every nerve in my body fires at once. I don’t turn around. Can’t turn around. My hand tightens on the glass I’m holding. I’m surprised it hasn’t shattered.
“That depends.”
“On?”
I set the glass down carefully. “On whether you’ll leave me hanging again.”
I can hear the teasing smile in her voice. “Only one way to find out.”
She walks away without waiting for my answer. Weaves through the crowd with practiced grace, not looking back, because she knows.
She knows I’ll follow her.
I’ll follow her till morning comes.
10+ scenes still to come.
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