When I finally let her go, she smiled. “I believe in you and will always have your back.”
Giving my hand one last squeeze, she slid off the bed, leaving me alone with my thoughts. My brain was overloaded, and if I just sat here thinking of all the possibilities for my life, it wouldlikely explode. What I needed more than anything was to shut it off, even if only temporarily. There was only one place I knew where I could make that happen, but it would have to wait until later. Rolling over, I closed my eyes, willing myself to sleep until the time was right.
Chapter 5
Lucy
Just past midnight, Iwalked along the darkened underground tunnels connecting the palace to the outside world. Initially designed as an escape route in the event of an attack, they now became my method of slipping my security detail in the middle of the night. Stonecrest Palace was built against the side of a mountain, with the Bellestonian capital city of Remhorn situated below. That meant the tunnels were a maze of steep stairs leading toward the city.
Using the flashlight on my phone, I carefully navigated the path I knew would spit me out closest to my destination. Walking barefoot to avoid slipping on the worn stone steps in four-inch heels, the chill from the Earth surrounding me was seeping into my bones. It didn’t matter. I could handle a little discomfort.
After twenty minutes spent underground, I unlatched the heavy metal door that opened on a random cobblestone alleyway in Remhorn. It was one of many exits from the tunnels, allunmarked. If you didn’t know they were there, you’d never find them, and they only opened from the inside. Each time I ventured through them, I was taking a risk as I was forced to keep it open with a metal pipe to await my return. My family would kill me if they knew—not only where I was going but that I used the tunnels to do so.
Slipping the familiar silver mask onto the upper half of my face, I strapped on my heels and ventured through the alleyway toward my destination. Two turns later, I knocked on the bolted steel door in a practiced cadence until the horizontal slot at eye level slid open, and I was met with another masked face, asking, “Password?”
Ready for the irony? “Freedom,” I replied.
The sound of three deadbolts turning echoed through the small alley, and the door opened, allowing me entry. Stepping inside, I was instantly met with warmth, which was quite welcome on a cool October night in the Alps. Especially after spending almost half an hour scantily dressed underground.
The first few steps inside the building showcased a reception area, where you were expected to hand over your cell phone and any other personal belongings you didn’t want to carry. A wallet wasn’t needed. Everyone was billed according to their member ID. Spelled out in neon against a brick wall was the name of the club: Desire.
My cell phone was the only possession I brought tonight, so I handed it to the hostess behind the desk to store in the bin associated with my ID. We didn’t use names here—not real ones, anyway.
A red curtain separated reception from the rest of the club, and once I was cleared, I stepped through them to encounter another set of stairs that led me right back underground. Reaching the bottom, I felt at peace. This was where I belonged.
The club’s main room featured a stage, several seating areas—some secluded, others not—and a bar. Everything was done in black, with red and silver accents, whether it be the art on the walls, the booths, or the carpets. Beyond this area, commonly known as the bullpen, were private rooms paid for by members.
If you haven’t figured it out yet, Desire was a sex club.
Now, before you judge me, hear me out.
Do you know how hard it is to have a sex life as a royal?
Let me rephrase that: Do you know how hard it is to have a sex life as afemaleroyal?
Outside of this club, there were camera warriors everywhere. We now lived in a world where everyone had a camera in their back pocket, and the moment they recognized who I was, they whipped it out to get either a picture or a video. There had been speculation of a dating history with every man I’d been seen standing within two feet of since I was sixteen.
Even if I kept within the tight upper circles of society, word would get around, and the press would pay handsomely for proof of a scandal. As a teenager, I knew I couldn’t risk what they would do to me if a picture or video was ever leaked of me in bed with a man.
There were different sets of rules for men and women. If a man had several sexual partners, they were applauded by society for sowing their wild oats before settling down. If a woman even implied that they enjoyed sex, they were labeled a hussy, slut, whore, or worse.
What’s worse than a whore, you ask? I’m not sure, but I’ll be damned if I volunteered to be the first to find out.
When I was eighteen, I used a search engine to find discreet ways to lose my virginity. That single search led me down the rabbit hole that the internet provided, and I discovered the world of sex clubs. After months of research, I was sure I’d found the solution to my problem.
Notice how I gave up my cell phone at the door? Discretion was an illusion in the outside world, but down here, it was the law. Beyond that, members were required to wear masks to disguise their identities. Total anonymity was why I chose Desire over other clubs in Belleston—yes, clubs as in plural; the lifestyle was more common than you’d think.
I was terrified the first time I came here, certain that I would be out of my league. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It was obvious that I was new, but there was no pressure.
Afforded the time to get to know some members, I found the right man to take my virginity. In this environment, it was something to be cherished—a man was honored to take me on my first sexual journey, and he wanted me to enjoy myself.
Safety was at the forefront of every facet of Desire. Members were required to pass a rigorous background check prior to being granted access to the club’s private rooms. A stipulation of continued membership was providing monthly STD screening results, and women were asked to show proof of birth control, the only exception being long-term relationships where both parties agreed otherwise.
The bottom line was that all members, either single or attached, could enjoy their time at the club without worrying about real-world consequences following them home.
This club allowed individuals to explore their sexuality in a safe space—the type of safety varied from member to member. My safety lay in the fact that the kind of men who could afford membership had enough money that selling a story about sleeping with me would barely make a splash in their bank account. That was, if they even knew who I was behind the mask.
Masks came in several colors, and each had a separate meaning.
