“She bought a Tesla, Greg.”

I was standing at the kitchen island, staring at the Instagram post on my phone. It was a picture of our twenty-two-year-old daughter, Ella, posing next to a white Model 3. She was wearing sunglasses that I knew for a fact cost more than my monthly grocery budget and a dress that looked like it was made of fishing line and diamonds.

Greg looked up from his iPad. He was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing his second cup of coffee. He had that look he always gets when I bring up Ella, a mix of pride and mild terrified confusion.

“Maybe she’s leasing it?” he suggested, though he didn’t sound convinced.

“On an ‘Events Coordinator’ salary?” I scoffed. “Greg, she graduated six months ago with a degree in Communications. When I was her age, I was driving a Honda Civic with a broken AC and eating ramen. Last week she posted a picture of a handbag that costs four thousand dollars.”

I put the phone down and sighed. The kitchen was quiet. It was the kind of quiet that had settled into our house ever since Ella moved out. It wasn’t a peaceful quiet; it was a heavy silence. The silence of a house that had served its purpose.

I loved Greg. We had been married for twenty-five years. He was a good man, a sturdy man. He worked in insurance, played golf on Saturdays, and we had sex every Sunday night after 60 Minutes. It was a good life. A comfortable life.

But lately, looking at Ella’s social media feed, filled with late nights, blurred lights, and expensive things, felt a pang of something sharp. Worry, yes. But underneath the worry, something else. Jealousy? Boredom?

“I think we should go see her,” I said.

Greg blinked. “She lives in the city, Liz. It’s a forty-minute drive.”

“I don’t mean for tea. I mean tonight. She said she’s working a big event at some venue called ‘The Velvet Room’ or something. She was vague about it.”

“She’s always vague,” Greg muttered.

“Exactly. What if she’s ... I don’t know, Greg. What if she’s dealing drugs? What if she’s an escort?” The words hung in the air, heavy and ugly.

Greg stood up. At 49, he was still a handsome man. He had let himself go a little around the middle, the “dad bod” creeping in, but he still had broad shoulders and a full head of hair that was just starting to salt-and-pepper.

“She’s not an escort, Liz,” he said firmly. “But ... you’re right. The money doesn’t add up. Maybe we should just pop in. Buy a ticket? Surprise her?”

“Surprise her,” I agreed. “We’ll treat it like a date night. If everything is legit, we have a drink, say hello, and leave. If it’s not...”

“If it’s not, we bring her home,” Greg finished.

We made the plan. Date night. I felt a flutter in my stomach that I hadn’t felt in years. It was adrenaline. We were going on a mission.

I went upstairs to get ready.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in our bedroom. I stripped off my yoga pants and oversized t-shirt.

I’m 47. I’ve birthed one child. Gravity is a thing. But I’m not dead.

I gave myself a once over. 5’5”. 140 pounds. I had put on five pounds over the holidays that I hadn’t quite managed to shake off, settling mostly in my hips and lower stomach. My breasts were still a handful, though they relied a bit more on underwire than they used to. My skin was fair, showing a few laugh lines around the eyes, but smooth.

I looked “soft.” That was the word. Compared to Ella, who was all hard angles, chaotic energy, and taut, young skin, I looked soft. Domesticated.

I turned sideways, sucking in my stomach. Not bad.

“What to wear to a mysterious event space?” I muttered to myself.

I bypassed the floral prints and the sensible slacks. If we were going into the city, I wanted to blend in. I pulled out a black cocktail dress I hadn’t worn since a wedding three years ago. It was a wrap dress, V-neck, with sleeves that came to the elbow. It hit just at the knee.

I slid it on. It was snugger than I remembered. It hugged my hips tightly. The V-neck showed a respectable amount of cleavage, not “slutty,” but enough to prove I was a woman.

As a confidence booster, I put on a matching black bra and panty set and black pumps. I added a layer of red lipstick and darkened my eyeliner.

“You look nice,” Greg said from the doorway. He was wearing his “funeral and wedding” suit, minus the tie, with the top button of his shirt undone.

“I look like a mother trying to look young,” I corrected him, smoothing the dress over my hips.

“You look hot,” Greg said. He walked over and kissed my neck. It was a reflex, a habit, but I leaned into it. “Ready to go spy on our daughter?”

“Let’s go.”

The drive into the city was quiet. We held hands over the center console. It felt like we were conspirators.

The GPS led us away from the nice restaurants and theaters. We went deep into the warehouse district. The streets got darker. The buildings got older, brick facades with no signage.

“Is this right?” Greg asked, squinting at the navigation screen.

“This is the address she sent me for the Uber last week when she needed a ride,” I said.

We pulled up to a large, nondescript grey building. There was no sign. No valet. Just a heavy steel door with a red light above it and a very large man standing in front of it holding a clipboard.

There were cars parked all along the street. Nice cars. Porsches, Mercedes, the occasional Tesla like Ella’s.

Greg parked the car. “This doesn’t look like an event space. It looks like a meatpacking plant.”

“Maybe it’s industrial chic?” I offered, though my stomach was doing flip-flops. “Come on.”

We walked up to the door. The bouncer stopped us. He was a wall of muscle in a black t-shirt.

“Name?” he grunted.

“Oh, we’re not on the list,” Greg said, putting on his ‘Insurance Salesman’ voice. “We’re actually looking for Ella. Ella Bennett? She works here.”

The bouncer looked down at his clipboard, then back at us. He looked us up and down. Me in my sensible wrap dress, Greg in his suit.

He smirked. “Ella’s parents?”

“Yes,” I said, standing up straighter. “Is she inside?”

“Yeah, she’s running the floor,” the bouncer said. He unhooked the velvet rope. “She didn’t mention you guys were coming tonight. Usually, we require a membership or a vetting process.”

“Vetting process?” I asked.

“For the club,” he said vaguely. “But since you’re family ... go ahead. Take the elevator to the basement.”

He opened the heavy steel door.

Greg and I looked at each other. This was it.

“Thank you,” Greg said.

We stepped inside. The door clanged shut behind us, cutting off the noise of the street. We were in a small vestibule with a single elevator button.

“The basement,” Greg whispered. “Liz, I don’t like this.”

“We’re here, Greg. We have to see.”

The elevator arrived. We stepped in. It smelled of expensive perfume and something muskier. Leather? It was dim inside.

As we descended, I looked at Greg. He looked nervous, sweating slightly at the temples.

“If it’s dangerous,” I whispered, grabbing his hand. “We grab her and run.”

“Agreed.”

The doors opened.

We weren’t greeted by danger. We were greeted by bass. A low, thrumming beat that vibrated the floorboards.

And we were greeted by luxury.

We stepped out into a corridor lined with red velvet curtains. It was dark, lit only by sconces that cast a warm, golden glow. It didn’t look like a basement. It looked like the inside of a jewelry box.

“Can I help you?”

A young woman stood at a podium at the end of the hall. She was wearing a corset. Just a corset. And fishnet stockings.

I gripped Greg’s hand tighter.

“We’re looking for Ella,” Greg managed to say. “We’re her parents.”

The woman’s face lit up. “Oh! Ella’s mom and dad! She talks about you guys all the time! She’s in the Main Lounge. Just through those curtains.”

She gestured behind her.

“Is this ... a strip club?” I asked, looking at her outfit.

The woman laughed. “No, sweetie. It’s a Lifestyle Club. Go on in. Have fun.”

She winked at Greg.

Greg looked at me, eyes wide. “Lifestyle?”

“Let’s just find her,” I hissed.

We pushed through the heavy velvet curtains.

My senses were assaulted.

The room was massive. It was designed like a high-end lounge, leather sofas, a long mahogany bar, chandeliers. But the clientele...

There were people everywhere. Men in suits, men in towels. Women in evening gowns, women in lingerie, women who were completely naked.

To my left, on a plush velvet chaise, a woman was straddling a man, grinding on him while holding a glass of champagne. Her breasts were out, bouncing freely.

To my right, a group of three people stood talking near the bar. One man had his hand down the back of a woman’s dress, kneading her ass while she chatted about, I swear I heard this, her Pilates instructor.

It was Sodom and Gomorrah with a cocktail menu.

“Oh my god,” I whispered, my hand flying to my mouth. “Greg. Look.”

“I’m looking,” Greg said. His voice was strangled.

I followed his gaze.

Across the room, near a roped-off section marked ‘VIP,’ was our daughter.

Ella.

She wasn’t wearing an event coordinator’s blazer. She was wearing a dress made of black latex. It was strapless, tight enough to cut off circulation, and short enough to be a belt. She wore thigh-high boots with six-inch heels. Her hair was slicked back in a high ponytail, and she held a tablet in one hand and a riding crop in the other.

She looked ... powerful. Terrifying. And undeniably sexy.

As we watched, a man in a tuxedo approached her. He was older, distinguished. He leaned in and whispered something to her.

Ella threw her head back and laughed. Then, casually, as if she were shaking his hand, she reached out and grabbed his crotch. She gave a firm squeeze. Then she leaned in and kissed him. Not a peck. A full-on, tongue-down-the-throat kiss.

She pulled back, tapped his cheek with the riding crop, and pointed him toward the VIP area. The man looked like he had just won the lottery. He scurried off.

“That’s our daughter,” Greg whispered.

“She just ... she just groped that man,” I stammered. “She kissed him.”

“She’s working,” Greg said, though he sounded like he was in shock.

“Working?” I hissed. “Greg, she’s a ... she’s running a sex club!”

Ella turned around. She scanned the room, looking like a queen surveying her kingdom.

Then her eyes landed on us.

For a second, I expected her to look horrified. I expected her to run, or cover herself, or scream. I braced myself for the shame.

Instead, her face lit up with a genuine maximize-wattage smile.

She waved the riding crop in the air.

“Mom! Dad!” she shouted over the music.

She started walking toward us, her hips swaying in that impossible latex dress, weaving through the crowd of naked and half-naked people like it was a church picnic.

“You guys came!” she beamed as she reached us.

She hugged me. She smelled like expensive perfume and expensive liquor. Her skin was warm.

“Ella,” I choked out, pulling back to look at her. “What is this place? What are you wearing?”

“Welcome to The Velvet Room,” she said, gesturing around. “I’m the Vibe Manager. Do you like it?”

“The ... Vibe Manager?” Greg asked, staring resolutely at her face and trying very hard not to look at the way the latex pushed her breasts up to her chin.