Page 15 of Hard Limits

Perhaps Teresa looked after lost property?

“Where do I find her?”

“She’s on the first floor. Go past the entrance to the spa, and her office is through the next door. Your pass should work.”

Teresa didn’t look after lost property. My eyes bugged out as I took in the rows of dresses in the room beside her office, plus the dressing tables surrounded by lights, theatre-style, and what could have been a professional hair salon. Shelves held rows of wigs on mannequin heads, everything from Marilyn Monroe to disco alien. Beyond the wigs were the shoes, high-heeled pumps in every colour of the rainbow by Jimmy Choo, Christian Louboutin, Manolo Blahnik. What was this place?

“I didn’t realise there was a boutique here. Is it only for members?”

Teresa herself was an older woman, her steel-grey hair styled into a long pixie cut that she had the bone structure to pull off. She looked as if she sampled the merchandise, dressed as she was in an emerald shift dress and towering pumps. Her peal of laughter was unexpected.

“Oh, my sweet summer child, Brax has left another of his assistants in the dark?” Another laugh. “Or rather, out of The Dark.”

Out of the dark? What did she mean? How could I know what I didn’t know?

“Maybe?” Although a lack of communication had certainly been a central theme of our working relationship so far. “Probably.”

“These clothes are for the staff.”

“Which staff?”

My colleagues on the third floor wore slightly more fashionable versions of my own outfits, and the waitstaff in the restaurant had a black-and-white uniform. I couldn’t imagine Fabien the chef in an evening gown. What if a bead dropped into the soup?

“The staff who work downstairs.”

But we were already downstairs? Wait, hadn’t Charlotte mentioned something about a basement? Why would people wear designer dresses in the basement? Unless… Unless there was an entertainment space? In Boston, Meera and I had once gone to a nightclub in a basement, and the lack of air left me feeling suffocated.

No, this place wouldn’t have a nightclub. The clientele was all wrong. Possibly a cabaret show? Burlesque?

“What happens downstairs? Some kind of performances?”

“Performances? I suppose you could say that. We’re in the business of wish fulfilment here.”

Wish fulfilment? My wish was to become an emergency medical specialist, but that couldn’t be done in the basement of an office building-slash-restaurant. And my fallback, to sip cocktails on a quiet beach with a man I’d married for love rather than out of obligation, also didn’t fit with the whole “underground” concept.

I recalled a kid I’d met during my paediatric rotation. His dream of flying a plane had come true—at least, he’d gotten to sit in the cockpit and hold the controls. Was that what Teresa meant by wish fulfilment? Matching sick patients with people who could make them smile? Why would Mr. Vale keep that a secret? And how did the dresses come into it?

“Like the Make-A-Wish Foundation?”

“No, no, these wishes are for grown-ups. Maybe ‘fantasies’ is a better word? Say a man wants to have his toes sucked by three women dressed as Marilyn Monroe…” Teresa waved a hand toward the collection of wigs. “We can make that happen.”

Realisation dawned, along with horror and nausea. Sucking toes? Gross.

“Are you talking about sexual fantasies?”

“That’s right, dear. Although, as I recall, Brax did lend his boat to a young boy with cancer last year. He wanted to see dolphins.”

I sank onto a padded velvet banquette. Suddenly, it all made sense. The sexy-luxury vibe on the first floor. The secrecy. The gorgeous clothes. The risqué prints in the hallway outside Mr. Vale’s office. The pretty women I saw coming and going when I ran errands for my new boss. I’d assumed Mr. Vale was merely filthy rich, but now I realised he was filthy-filthy too.

“So what is this place? A high-class brothel?”

“Heavens, no. We don’t take walk-ins. Clients are paying for access, privacy, and the freedom to express themselves, not sex. Many of them bring their wives. Or their mistresses—we don’t judge here.”

“Then who are the dresses for?”

“The hosts and hostesses.”

“They don’t sleep with the customers?”

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