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Going after him would be my riskiest move to date. But the thrill of it, and the thought of how much I could take, was too much to resist.

Weekends at Luxe were pure chaos. By the time I got there, the girls were beefing again over a section swap, the ice machine on the third floor was acting up, and Tank, the general manager, was in my face.

“Porsha called out,” he said, catching me on the stairs.

“Again?”

“Something about a family emergency.”

I side-eyed him. “I’m about to fire your girl, Tank. The bitch thinks you and your dick will save her, but I promise you it won’t.”

“I need somebody on the VIP floor,” he said, ignoring my comment. “One of the parties dropped ten thousand on bottles.”

I rubbed my temples. Checking in on VIP was one thing—I did that every shift, making sure the girls were keeping the guests happy enough to keep spending, providing a little extra support when needed. Actually working it was different. That meant being on the entire time, catering to the exact kind of men I preyed on. Maintaining the separation between Luxe-Belle and the other Belle on a floor full of rich niggas with inflated egos was exhausting when I couldn’t walk away after five minutes.

But the tip would be good, and one of the newer girls would fumble this.

“I’ll cover it myself.”

Tank looked relieved. “That’s why you’re my favorite.”

It was 10:30, and the DJ had moved past his warm-up set and was starting to get the club jumping. After touching up my makeup in the back, I checked the booking sheet, scanning for Porsha’s name.

Section twelve.

The name under the reservation made me pause.

Montague.

A quiet laugh slipped out as I shook my head. What are the fucking odds? I told this man where I worked, and here he is booking a whole birthday party at my club.

“This motherfucker,” I muttered under my breath.

Still, I couldn’t even be mad at it. The persistence was admirable.

I smoothed my expression and headed out to the floor.

Luxe sat in the heart of the Lower East Side and attracted a diverse crowd, but the vibe switched up depending on where you were in the club. The main floor was already filling up, bodies pressing closer as I navigated to the stairs that led to the second level.

Up here, things were calmer with a few smaller sections, and space for people to nurse their drinks without getting swallowed up by the crowd. Some of the girls were already working their sections in their requisite all black outfits, moving fast, all smiles.

Now, the third floor was where the money lived.

It was the exclusive VIP, where booking a section came with a five-thousand-dollar minimum, and that was before bottles. The lighting was lower, and the sections were bigger, spaced out just enough to give the illusion of privacy. Here, the big ballers came to be seen spending, while my girls made the kind of tips that kept them coming back despite the bullshit.

Section twelve was in the back corner—the best spot on the floor. It had a clear view of everything but was far enough removed from everyone else that you didn’t have to shout to be heard.

I saw Siani while I was grabbing ice from the bar.

“You covering Porsha’s section?” she asked, her curls pulled up into two space buns.

“Yeah.”

“What they got going on?”

“A birthday party.”

“Ugh, lucky.” She grabbed a bottle opener off the bar. “It’s actually Riq’s birthday today too. He’s been real hush-hush about what he’s doing for it though.”