Page 10 of Mine

“Good evening, Miss Hart.” Jalen, a six-foot-seven former linebacker greets me as I approach the velvet rope barrier.

“Evening, J.”

His gaze sweeps me as he pulls aside the rope for me. The crowd groans. Everyone wants access to this exclusive elevator.

“May I say you look ravishing tonight.”

“You most certainly may.” I wink, inhaling the scent of his cologne. Jalen wears the best cologne. Definitely not Victoria’s Secret. “Thank you. It’s my birthday.”

“Well, a big fat happy birthday to you, then.” Using the keycard chained to his wrist, he illuminates the screen next to the elevator. “Big plans?”

“Yes. I’m taking two weeks off work, starting tonight, and I’ve got the entire left side of the dessert menu being delivered to my room in exactly,” I glance at my watch, “two hours.”

The elevator door opens, and I step inside.

“Well, what a coincidence.” He grins, blinding white teeth against deep ebony. “That’s the exact time I get off.”

“What?” I cup my hand to my ear, mocking deafness. “I can’t hear you. I’m sorry, I can’t?—”

Jalen chuckles as the door slides closed.

I tap a screen on the elevator door and type in the code that was sent to my secure email thirty minutes ago. On a subtle chime, the elevator descends, passing the floor that houses the exclusive club that everyone thinks the elevator leads to, and dropping several floors below street level to an uber-exclusive underground bar that only the wealthiest and most powerful people know about.

When the doors open, the scent of sandalwood drifts into the car—the Dungeon’s signature scent.

I don’t recognize the guard, and this alarms me a bit. The Dungeon isn’t the type of place to go alone, or at least, to be unknown by the staff. It’s not that it’s unsafe; it’s that the men here have an inflated sense of ownership of everything around them, including the women. I’ve visited enough times that most of the staff know me—but not tonight.

A man steps out of the shadows as I hand my identification to the doorman/guard, watching me closely. I glance at the gun on his belt.

Something is different about tonight.

“Ballroom 107, Miss Hart,” the monstrous man says in the deepest voice I’ve ever heard. “Down the hall, to your left, then make a right at the tee. You’ll need a code to get inside.” He presses a button, and a tiny card prints from under the lectern he is standing behind. “This number will be invalid in ten minutes. If you leave the ballroom, you’ll need another card to get back in. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Usually, I take my time walking down the long red-carpeted hallway, appreciating the artwork and chandeliers that hang from the ceiling. Tonight, however, I’m eager to get to my post, and even more eager to get back to my room.

There is yet another guard outside of Ballroom 107. This one, however, is wearing a tuxedo and looks far less intimidating. I recognize him as Timothy, a frequent staffer.

“Good evening, Miss Hart.” He smiles warmly. “You look stunning.”

“Thank you. What’s with all the beefed-up security tonight?”

Timothy shrugs. “They never tell us, and honestly, I don’t ask. May I escort you inside?”

“No thanks.”

I beeline it to the bar, scanning the dimly lit room as I do. Different night, same scenery.

The multiple-level ballroom is sparse with dozens of men in either tuxedos or fancy suits, and Barbie-sized women hanging on their arms, dripping in gold, diamonds, implants, and fillers. Cigar smoke floats on the candlelight. The focal point of the room is a roped-off poker table. Vacant, for now.

I take note that my red dress is the exact color of the carpet in the room. Kismet? Or a fashion disaster? I’m not sure which.

On my first-ever visit to the Dungeon, I was awestruck—and honestly, intimidated. But I soon learned that everyone who comes here is the same. Shallow, ostentatious elites living in a world dominated by material things. Well-groomed, carefully curated humans primed to take over the earth, here for no other reason than social status and profit. They are polite and cultured to your face, and vicious behind your back.

I can’t say that I don’t respect them, though. I do. It takes discipline to obtain and maintain that kind of wealth. It’s just that when I speak to them, I feel as though I’ve landed on another planet. A fish out of water, I can play the part—and I play it well, if I do say so myself. Some nights I pretend I’m the lead actor in a Broadway play. Some nights I’m a real estate heiress, and others, the daughter of a tech CEO.

Tonight, however, I’m just going to be me. It is my birthday, after all.

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