Chapter 17

It was a Thursday night in Chicago, and everything seemed to be running smoothly. The elevated trains were on schedule, downtown traffic flowed without the usual bottlenecks, and the city’s people were moving through the evening with a quiet determination to make life better for themselves and those around them.

In the back parking lot of Club Velvet, a hired car rolled to a stop. The rear doors opened almost in unison—one on each side. The first figure to emerge was slight of build and noticeably shorter than the second. The second, a tall man with broad shoulders and close-cropped hair, moved with the solid weight of someone who took his job as protector seriously.

The smaller figure ran a hand through his hair, glancing around as the parking lot’s lights caught his face. Anyone watching would have quickly realized he wasn’t a young woman, but a teenage boy.

Chase Ellington—sixteen years old, son of powerhouse entertainment lawyer Bruce Ellington—had come to Chicago to escape California’s endless layers of glamour and artifice. Even years after the WE’s arrival, southern California still held its mystique, but the shine was only surface-deep. Beneath it all, the same fakery lingered. Chase had grown tired of it.

“Mike, I said I’d be fine. You don’t have to come in with me,” Chase told his bodyguard and personal assistant.

“Yes, sir. But I’ll be right here, just in case.”

Chase gave a short nod, tugged his hood up, and headed toward the club’s entrance. His pulse quickened. He’d never been here before, but he’d heard whispers from the entertainment crowd—how this club was unlike any other, how its women were among the most beautiful in the world. One of his father’s clients had once been overheard telling another about a night in a Velvet location down in Metro City—a night he claimed had been nearly life-changing.

Chase needed to see for himself.

He reached the front door, nervous excitement thudding in his chest. Pulling it open, he stepped into the warm light of the lobby and was greeted by a big man with an easy, genuine smile.

“Welcome to Club Velvet! How can I help you tonight?”

Chase pushed back his hood, trying to project a little more maturity, but the youth in his face betrayed him. “Um ... I’d like to visit your club,” he said, his voice catching just slightly.

The man gave him a once-over, likely checking with the WE, but didn’t challenge him. “Yes, sir. We’d be honored to have you. There’s a ten-dollar entrance fee.”

“Sure,” Chase replied, reaching into his front pocket. He kept the wad of bills mostly hidden, peeling off a single ten before handing it over. The doorman slipped the bill into the register and gestured toward the interior.

“Enjoy your evening.”

The moment Chase stepped inside, the world outside dissolved.

Muted lighting washed the room in soft golds and ambers, casting just enough glow to guide the eye without overwhelming it. The music from the sound system pulsed gently through the air—present, but never so loud that it swallowed conversation. It was a rhythm meant to complement, not dominate.

A waitress appeared almost immediately, her smile warm and without pretense. She wore a fitted Club Velvet T-shirt and a short skirt, the hint of thigh-high stockings and garter straps peeking through when she moved. “Welcome,” she said, her tone friendly rather than rehearsed. With an easy grace, she led him toward an open table near the edge of the floor.

From there, Chase took in the scene. Dancers moved across the stage, each performance deliberate yet unhurried, sensual without desperation. The lighting played over their skin, catching glimmers of movement and shaping shadows in a way that felt ... real.

This wasn’t California’s brand of allure—no bleached-blonde illusions begging for attention, no manufactured personas draped in designer labels, no parade of rented luxury cars parked out front for show. Here, the attraction wasn’t in what could be faked. It was in the authenticity, in the easy flow of eye contact, in the way people smiled because they wanted to, not because a camera was pointed at them.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Chase felt no spotlight on him. No one cared that he was Bruce Ellington’s son. No one was trying to angle for an introduction or a favor. The staff treated him with the same friendly attentiveness they gave anyone else, and the rest of the room simply let him exist.

It was a strange kind of relief—this freedom to be a face in the crowd instead of a name on a guest list. And as Chase leaned back in his chair, he realized he liked it.

The waitress came to him with a menu, something that he hadn’t expected. Since when do strip clubs serve food, he thought.

“What can I get you to drink while you look over the menu?” the waitress asked, her eyes holding his in a way that made him feel like he mattered.

“Um,” he stammered and quickly checked the menu. “I’ll have a Dr Pepper, please.” he said, finding the soda listing in the bottom corner of the menu.

“Excellent honey, I’ll be right back.” she said then started to turn away.

“Wait, can you answer a question for me?” he said, stopping her from leaving.

The waitress smiled, and then leaned in closer. “Sure honey. What can I answer for you?”

Chase waved at the menu, “This is the first time I’ve been here, what is good and is the food listed here normal for this place? I’ve never heard of a club like this serving actual food before.”

The waitress laughed, not a dismissive laugh, or a teasing laugh like you would a child, but a laugh that felt like someone who had answered this question many times over. “Yes, this is very normal. Our owner has done this on purpose. He wants everyone that comes to the club to have a good time and food with entertainment is universally accepted as a good time. So no honey, this is very normal for Club Velvet.”