Chapter 148 Chapter 148 The Green Door
I lean against Vince’s Benz, smoking, already knowing this is a bad idea. We’re here first—everyone else went to change too. Vince stands next to me, smoothing out his tie, sharp in a suit like he belongs in a courtroom, not outside a swingers club. Then again, this place attracts every kind of power player in Vegas. Lawyers included. Vince included, the new partner at his dad's firm.
“You look good in red,” he says softly.
I run a hand over my hip. The silk dress clings and flows all at once, full-length with a slit up the front that teases every step. The neckline hangs low, loose around my breasts, like it might fall if I breathe wrong. Underneath, I went all out—bondage lingerie, straps and lace, something meant to be seen…just not by anyone here. I’m watching tonight, not participating. And definitely not with anyone from our group. The club is packed—I already know that much. It’s Saturday night after all.
I exhale smoke toward the sky. No one’s said a word about me smoking. Most of them still treat me like I’ll shatter if they push too hard. Everyone but Gemma. With her, it’s always been complicated—sharp edges and truth whether I want it or not. Love and hate.
I turn toward Vince. “Hey, in case you end up with Vladimira…” I wink. “Be nice to her. She’s pregnant.”
He chokes instantly, coughing on his own spit. “What???”
“Ivan’s. He doesn’t want it. She was supposed to abort, but she didn’t.” I hesitate for half a second, then just say it. “I’m going to adopt the baby.”
That lands heavier. His whole posture shifts, serious now. “Are you sure you’re ready? Not just for a baby… but this baby? Ivan’s kid. With the woman he chose over you.”
I take a slow breath, feeling the weight of it settle again. “I’ve got time to figure it out. I think… I think it’s what I need. Something real to focus on. Someone other than myself to care for. Something that isn’t all this.” I gesture vaguely—to the club, to the chaos, to myself.
Cars start pulling in, one after another. Doors open. Heels hit pavement. Suits, dresses—everyone looks too good for the kind of place we’re about to walk into. Vince moves quickly, stepping away from me to help Vladimira out of Petia’s car. He takes her hand like it’s natural, like he’s done it before. She looks up at him the same way I used to.
I push off the car before I can think too much about it and head toward the entrance.
We file in together. John, the night manager, greets us with that same knowing smile. He’s seen us here enough times to know exactly what we’re walking into.
“Big group tonight,” he says, handing out clipboards. “New faces too. Want a quick tour?”
“Give them one,” I say, already moving past him. “I’ll be at my usual spot after I get a drink.”
He nods, smiling as I slip away.
The second-floor bar is thick with smoke, expensive cigars mixing with liquor and perfume. Bodies press too close—half-naked, hands wandering, lips already finding each other. I slide between them, reaching the bar like muscle memory.
Jack spots me immediately, finishes a pour, and comes over. “What’ll it be?”
“Satan’s abortion.”
He doesn’t even blink—just starts mixing. I don’t do the shot. I never do. I want the full glass. I want it to hit hard, fast. I want to feel it tomorrow.
Drink in hand, I head for the fourth floor, but I stop at the main cage first.
It’s chaos in there.
The floor’s covered in gym mats, every inch occupied. More than twenty couples, all fucking in every position imaginable. Women bent in ways that don’t seem possible. Men with men. Women with women. Groups tangled together. The viewing sections are caged off like prison cells, packed with people watching, drinking, touching themselves. No shame. No boundaries.
“Are these the kind of places you go to, doll?” Jax’s voice is right behind me, his breath hot against my ear. “Is this who you are?”
I lean back into him, feeling the solid wall of his chest at my back, steady and warm. Moans echo around us, layered and constant. “This is just another layer,” I say quietly. “You have no idea who I am.”
“I see you, little devil,” he murmurs, his hand brushing my hip.
I turn, grabbing his tie and pulling him down until we’re eye to eye. “You have no idea, daddy.” Then I let go, just like that.
At the top of the stairs, I glance back once. The look on his face—caught somewhere between shock and hunger—sticks with me longer than I expect.
The hallway of private rooms is quieter, more controlled. Each door has its own theme—jungle, dungeon, meadow, beach. Fantasy worlds tucked behind velvet and glass. I stop at the Victorian room. It’s always my favorite.
Dark wood, velvet furniture, candlelight flickering like something out of another century. A bookshelf lines one wall—probably fake, but convincing enough. There’s a one-way mirror. I can see them. They can’t see me. Unless they choose to.
I lean against the wall instead of sitting. I like standing. Feels more detached.
Inside, a pale woman is stretched out on an antique rug, propped on her elbows. A man is between her legs, eating her out. Her small breasts bounce with each movement, pink nipples tight, but her moans sound rehearsed—too perfect, too controlled. His ass is up, his cock hard and on display, one hand stroking himself while the other works inside her.
“There you are.”
That voice—deep, velvety, unmistakable.
“You move fast.”
I turn my head slowly and meet Ivan’s dark eyes. He’s loosening his tie as he walks toward me, like he owns the space, like he always does. Then he’s right there, his body pressed against mine, heat bleeding through the thin fabric of my dress.
He takes my drink without asking, brings it to his lips, and drinks.
“What is this?” he asks.
“Satan’s abortion,” I say, my voice flat, controlled. Like his body isn’t setting every nerve on fire. Like I don’t love the taste of blood everytime he tears me apart.
“You want one?”