Chapter 8

Two days after Frank left, Lisa stepped out of the new apartment dressed and ready for the inspection.

She had dipped into her savings to buy a solid pair of work boots, thick socks, jeans, and a rugged denim overcoat. She wanted to look like she belonged there—like she was in charge.

Jason met her at the site, and moments later, the inspector pulled up in a plain white truck. Lisa stood beside Jason as the man climbed out and shook hands with them both.

They led him into the building, then Lisa stepped back and let him work.

The inspector tapped on walls, drilled into support beams, checked levels, marked his clipboard, and made a few quiet mutters as he moved through the space. Lisa tried to stay calm, to keep her emotions out of it—but that was easier said than done.

She studied him carefully, letting her instincts do their thing, trying to feel the same gut-level warning that had flared up when she saw the photos.

But with the inspector, she got ... nothing.

No bad feeling. No good one either. Just neutral. He was a man doing a job—and from what she could tell, doing it well.

At the end of a long day, after they’d walked every floor and returned to the lobby, the inspector finally turned to her.

“Ma’am,” he said, “you’re the manager, right? Or soon to be?”

Lisa nodded. “Yes. Club Velvet is going to open here—hopefully—and I’ll be the one running it. I speak for the owner. He’s out of town.”

“Well, other than a few hairline cracks in the basement support columns. Normal for a building this age. We’ll inject epoxy to restore strength and apply sealant to stop moisture. Shouldn’t delay you more than a week.”

Lisa released the breath she had been holding while he spoke. It came out in one big woosh. “Great. Thank you for your time.” She shook his hand once again, then left with Jason to go back to his office. “We need a general contractor first of all.” She said, reading from a prepared list of items that she had created with the help of the WE. “The contractor will work with the cleanup crews, the wall guys and the basement guys to clean out and seal up that foundation.” She walked back and forth in the conference room as she spoke, Jason wisely remained silent as she worked through her list. Once she had finished, she thanked Jason and quickly reached out to Frank giving him the good news.

“IT’S A GO!!” She screamed at him once they both had a chance to say hi and express their appreciation to each other.

“Great. Then you know what to do, the WE showed me your list. Well done Lisa, well done.”

She ran out of the realtor office, jumped into a rented car and drove quickly to a general contractor’s office to begin lining them up to start work on the building.

The lease signing was scheduled for next week, and estimates for the necessary repairs were expected by then. Lisa planned to use those numbers to negotiate the lease terms—pressing the owners to lower the monthly payment in light of the repair costs. They agreed, eager to be rid of the aging property.

Lisa called Frank with the news, and Frank, in turn, called Grant—asking him to fly in for the final signing.

The group gathered in the realty office’s conference room: the owners, the agent, Frank, Lisa, the girls, Grant, and Grant’s assistant, Vanessa. It made for a curious collection of people.

Grant wore a sharp charcoal-gray suit, and Vanessa looked every bit the professional in a suit jacket over a silk blouse and pencil skirt. Frank arrived in black slacks, a deep navy jacket, and a pale blue shirt with no tie—confident, refined, relaxed.

And then Lisa walked in.

She wore a black tailored blazer over a deep emerald blouse that caught the light with every movement. Her heels clicked with quiet authority, and her pencil skirt hugged her just enough to remind everyone in the room that power didn’t have to sacrifice femininity. She no longer looked like someone trying to survive—she looked like someone who was running the show.

That part of the group—Frank, Lisa, Grant, and Vanessa—fit the expected mold for a meeting like this.

But the four other women? They stole the spotlight in their own way.

Veronica, Tiana, Marisol, and Brianna stood in a row near the wall, each dressed in matching purple-and-white cheerleader costumes with a bold “CV” stitched across the front. Their pleated skirts were just long enough to be respectable—but one wrong move, and their cheeks would be on display. Their excitement was impossible to contain as they bounced in place, wide-eyed and barely able to stand still while documents passed around the table.

And then—it was done.

The final signature was inked.

The moment the last paper landed, the four women erupted. They jumped and cheered, waving their plastic pom-poms and shouting with joy, turning the conference room into a mini celebration.

It was official: Club Velvet was coming to Chicago.

Dinner that night wasn’t at some fancy restaurant, but at the apartment Frank had secured for the girls. The entire group gathered around the large family-style table, takeout boxes spread everywhere, conversations overlapping in easy waves. It didn’t feel like a business meeting—it felt like a family.

Laughter bubbled up from different corners of the room. People passed food back and forth like they’d been doing it for years. It was relaxed, joyful, real.

When dinner began to wind down, Grant stood to take his plate to the kitchen, and at the trash can, he found himself face to face with Marisol.

She arrived with quiet timing, her presence calm and unhurried.

“Excuse me—go ahead,” Grant said, stepping aside politely.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

He turned to her with a small smile. “You don’t need to call me ‘sir.’ Just Grant. I don’t think I caught your name earlier?”

She looked up at him, meeting his eyes as she softly reached out to shake his hand.

“I’m Marisol Elena Cruz,” she said. “I’m going to be one of the dancers at the club. And ... I’m a friend of Lisa’s.”

Grant held her hand longer than necessary. Her voice was gentle, almost melodic. If he didn’t give her his full attention, he might miss her entirely—and the idea of missing anything she said bothered him more than it should.

“It’s nice to meet you, Marisol,” he said sincerely. “Are you looking forward to dancing? Have you danced before?”

She hesitated, not in shame, but in honesty. “If I may speak plainly, Grant ... I was a prostitute. Until Lisa gave me this chance.”

He didn’t let go of her hand.

“I appreciate you telling me,” he said quietly. “Can I ask ... why? Why that path?”

Marisol tilted her head slightly, considering. “It was the only work I could keep. I tried other jobs—fast food, retail—but I’d get bored or restless. I didn’t stay. But on the street ... I had freedom. It paid enough to live. And ... I was good at it.” She glanced at him, almost amused by her own bluntness. “Parts of it I liked. Others, not so much. But I’m glad to be done with it. I think I’ll enjoy working at the club for many of the same reasons—freedom, expression, energy.”

Grant found himself nodding slowly, still holding her hand. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then the words tumbled out before he could filter them.

“Did you ... enjoy it?”

Her laughter surprised him—light, unbothered. “Some parts, yes. Some parts, no. But you don’t have to apologize, Grant. You weren’t disrespectful. Just curious.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Still. I’m not usually that blunt.”

“I don’t mind being blunt,” she said, her voice like silk. “I mind dishonesty.”

There was a pause—soft, full, charged with something unspoken.

“I’d really like to talk with you more,” Grant said. “Just ... the two of us. I haven’t been able to stop looking at you since you introduced yourself.”

Marisol blushed, but didn’t look away. “I’d like that too. Are you staying here, or at a hotel?”

“Here,” he said. “Company apartment.”

She smiled. “Good. Then come sit with me. Let’s keep talking.”

Grant finally let go of her hand. They walked together to the living room, where they sat close on the couch—shoulders brushing, heads tilting toward each other, the rest of the world melting into the background.

At the table, Lisa had gone quiet. She’d been watching them since the trash can. She leaned toward Frank and whispered what she saw.

Frank followed her gaze.

Grant and Marisol. Sitting together. Talking softly. Smiling.

Frank smiled back.

****** NEXT MORNING

Lisa woke first.

The apartment was still dark and quiet, save for the soft hum of the heater and the occasional rustle of someone turning over in bed.

Frank lay beside her, one arm resting across his chest, his face relaxed in sleep. There was something grounding about seeing him like that—unguarded. Still. Hers.

She turned onto her side, watching him for a moment. The others were asleep in their rooms: the girls crammed into the bunk beds in the second bedroom, Grant and Marisol in the third. Vanessa on the pull-out couch.

It was strange ... but not uncomfortable. Like they’d been living this way for years instead of just days.

Her hand drifted under the blanket toward him.

She didn’t want to wake him.

She just wanted to feel him. To remind herself that he was real.

That this life, this family, this future—they were finally within reach.