Chapter 24

Marcus stepped into his apartment just past 2:30 a.m., keys jangling as he dropped them into the ceramic bowl by the door. The soft clink echoed in the stillness of the room—quiet, dim, and familiar. A city apartment, nothing flashy. Clean lines, lived-in furniture, and the faint smell of cedar from the cat litter tucked neatly in a corner.

Before he could even kick off his shoes, a low purring rumble filled the space.

“Hey, Rocko,” Marcus muttered, smiling as the grey cat padded out of the bedroom like a furry boulder with legs. “You waiting up for me?”

Rocko leapt onto the couch just as Marcus collapsed into it. The cat immediately climbed into his lap and began kneading at his thigh with his soft, stubby paws, purring loud enough to shake the cushions.

“You wouldn’t believe the night I had,” Marcus said, running a hand down Rocko’s back. “Club’s open. People showed up. They loved it. I think I pulled it off, buddy.”

Rocko blinked slowly, content.

Marcus leaned back, staring at the ceiling with a tired smile. “I’m officially the general manager of the most exclusive club in Manhattan. Still feels weird to say out loud. And I didn’t even screw up.”

Rocko flicked his tail and settled more firmly into Marcus’s lap.

“Yeah, I know,” Marcus chuckled. “You don’t care. As long as your food bowl’s full and I come home eventually.”

He scratched behind Rocko’s ears, and the cat melted further.

“But it’s something, you know? I helped build it. I’m going to keep it running. And Frank ... he trusts me to do it. That means something.”

He exhaled deeply, the high from the night slowly giving way to bone-deep fatigue.

“Tomorrow, we get to do it all again.”

Rocko purred in agreement.

When Marcus woke up, Rocko was curled up on the pillow next to him, a softly purring lump of grey fur. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, swung his feet over the side of the bed, and sat there for a moment, still processing.

Last night—this morning—whatever it was—had actually happened. And it had worked.

Everyone involved seemed happy. No fires to put out. No disasters. Just ... success.

As he made his way through his morning routine—brushing his teeth, showering, checking his messages—he skimmed through member feedback on his WE feed.

The surveys told the story: Members felt safe, They felt welcomed, They felt free.

The dancers were pleased with their tips. The staff had nothing but good things to say about the energy of the crowd. Elena had apparently been beaming after the last guest left, glowing with praise about the food.

Marcus toweled off and got dressed for the gym, mentally checking in with himself about what needed to be done today.

Restock. Clean. Prep.

That was it. No drama. No alarms. Just maintenance. Just readiness.

When he arrived at the club, the lobby was quiet and still—the Velvet Reserve in recovery mode. He headed straight to his office, powered on his computer, and started responding to emails and calls that had come in overnight.

Among them were messages from Frank and Grant.

Both had written to say the same thing, each in their own way: “Well done.”

Praise was never something Marcus chased. But sitting there, the words glowing on the screen, he allowed himself a small smile.

He’d done his job. And it mattered.

When the club opened, the rush wasn’t as big as it had been on the first night, but members still showed up and had a good time.

It was during the quiet of the night, just before he left for the night, he had a thought; they had too many employees and dancers and not enough members. The reason for being here was to make money, wasn’t it?

He paused before he sent the message, the WE spoke to him briefly, The club isn’t fully open yet. Once it is fully open, you will be glad that you have all of these staff and dancers here. You may even be asking for more.

“So I shouldn’t send it then?”

No. Give it a month and then see how it goes. You haven’t even had a weekend rush yet.

He snorted, realizing his WE were right. The email was deleted and he got back to making sure the club was ready for another night.

Marcus stood at the head of the conference room table, a cup of coffee in one hand and a small stack of notes in the other. Around him sat a cross-section of Velvet Reserve’s day-shift staff—Elena, a couple of dancers, a Pleasure Consultant named Xavier, a janitorial team rep, and Lucien from the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and eyes sharp despite the early hour.

“We’re not open for lunch yet, so consider this your recovery window,” Marcus began. “But we’ve got things to go over. Last night was a win—no doubt. But I want day two to be cleaner.”

He glanced at his notes. “First: kitchen. Lucien, we had a few items flagged as low—especially the truffle oil and those hazelnut crisps. Can we adjust ordering?”

Lucien nodded. “Already in the system. I doubled the reorder numbers.”

“Perfect. Janitorial—bathroom service intervals were too far apart. Floors got a little slick downstairs. Let’s shorten the cycle and get floor wipes near the exits.”

Another nod.

“Security—one member wandered past the signage looking for the spa. Let’s make the floor guides more obvious. Elena—fantastic recovery last night. You saved our upstairs.”

Elena blushed but nodded with a grateful smile.

“Oh, and one dancer—Lira—twisted her ankle. She’s fine, but take a look at the dance floor for hazards. Maybe test those heel catches again.”

There were murmurs of agreement, some scribbling on tablets. Marcus sipped his coffee.

“And ... one last thing.” He tapped his tablet, frowning lightly. “We’ve got a situation brewing.”

Heads turned.

“A non-member—Carter Knox, tech investor—heard about us from Kaia Bloom. Wants to rent a VIP lounge tonight. Says he’s bringing four guests.”

That got everyone’s attention.

“We’re not even open,” Elena muttered.

“No, we’re not,” Marcus agreed. “But we also don’t want to miss the moment. So I’m going to handle it personally. Frank’s still recovering, and Grant said to do what I think is best.”