I'll see you soon,
L
An asymmetric smile plays on my lips as I take in her message. I may be a Sir, but she is certainly a Madam. I sit back in my leather desk chair and tap the parchment against the desk as I debate on whether or not I should attend.
It's been nearly a year since I've been to Club X. Even longer since I've had a Submissive, and only one of those was purchased at one of the monthly auctions. She lasted the longest, but only because she was required to.
It would be a nice distraction from the mundane. I muse, staring absently at the back wall lined with black and white sketches from an up-and-coming artist.
Before I can decide, my desk phone rings, bringing me back to the present. I lean forward with annoyance and answer it.
"Stone," I answer.
"Lucian," my sister's voice comes through the line. It's bright and cheery, everything my younger sister embodies. Bubbly is what she likes to be called.
But her happiness doesn't rub off on me. Not after reading the fucking emails from our parents' lawyer. I doubt she knows, and it's not her fault.
She reminds me of them, though. I wish it wasn't like this. I wish I could separate the two, but I can't. They manipulate her, and it's only a matter of time before they'll come up in conversation. Shit, our parents could be why she's calling now.
"Anna, how are you?" I ask her casually. I trace my finger along the wax seal of the envelope as I listen.
"I've been good, but I've been missing you..." she trails off as her voice goes distant. I don't respond. I don't care to admit my feelings either way. Yes, there's a bit of pain from losing contact with my sister, but she chooses to keep in touch with them. She made that decision. And I refuse to have any contact with them.
"It's been too long," she says in a sad voice and then her tone picks up. "We should do lunch sometime soon."
I take in a long breath, not wanting to commit to anything. Lunches are quick unless it's a business meeting. Then they aren't really lunches. But beyond that, I don't have much to tell her. I'm certainly not going to be telling her what she wants to hear.
"Maybe soon," I finally reply.
She huffs over the phone, "You say that when you really mean no." Her voice is playful and forces a rough chuckle up my chest. She may only be nineteen, but Anna's a smart girl. I can't deny her. No matter how much I wish I could, I have a soft spot for her.
I lean forward and pull up my calendar. "I can do Thursday."
"Deal," she quickly agrees, and I can practically feel her smile through the phone. It warms my chest that I can make her happy. Unlike the rest of them, she doesn't take, take, take from me. She truly just wants to see me.
"I've missed you, too, Anna."
"Well you won't have to, since I'll text you and see you on Thursday," she says confidently.
"I will. I'll talk to you then." I'm quick to end the call before she can drag me into a longwinded conversation. She can do that on Thursday for all I care.
"Talk to you then. I love you," she says brightly.
"Talk to you then," I answer and hang up the phone.
As I do, my eyes catch sight of the card and I pick it up and rise from my desk, slinging my jacket over my arm and thinking about the last time I was there.
It's been a long time since I've set foot in Club X.
And a visit is long overdue.
Chapter 2
Dahlia
God, I wish I could wear this color, I think to myself as I slowly slide my fingertips over the rich, velvety purple fabric that lays across my desk. A fabric that will hopefully be turned into an award-winning gown. I suck in a breath, holding it and hoping that I'll be able to contribute to the design.
It's the new in vogue color this season, and it's only a matter of time before models will be flaunting it down the runway. I just hope that I can eventually be one of those fashion designers that proudly walks the runway at the end of a successful show. One day.
I like purple; it's probably up there with red and black as one of my favorite colors. I just don't look good wearing it. I gently lay the fabric down on the desk, thinking. Black suits me better, and it's probably why nearly all of my closet consists of black and greys. Even now, sporting dark silk slacks, a blouse the color of midnight and a cropped black leather jacket with my dark brown hair pulled up into a sleek ponytail, I look like I'm modeling for the grim reaper.
I think I need to stop wearing so much black, I tell myself, maybe then I'll stop being so damn depressed.
I take a deep breath and shake off the thought, taking the advice from my therapist to focus on the positives in my life. Black may be slimming, but it doesn't do the spirits any good. I just read a study on colors and the effects they have on the psyche and mood. I huff a small laugh. It was an odd thing to be tested on in my History of Fashion Development class, but it was eye opening.
Today has been wonderful, though. Actually, the past two weeks have been a dream come true. Growing up, I was heavily intrigued by fashion. Christian Dior, Gucci, Prada, Michael Kors, you name it. If it had a name, I wanted to wear it. I dreamed of cutting fabrics and sewing them into gorgeous gowns. One of my favorite gifts my mother ever got me was a drawing pad and a huge set of colored pencils for sketches. I filled the entire book up in only a month.
Over time, my obsession morphed into a lifelong dream of wanting to work in the fashion world, and up until several weeks ago, it looked like that fantasy would never come to fruition. But I finally got my foot in the door, and I'm not going to let this opportunity slip through my fingers.
Now I'm sitting here with my own office on the top floor of Explicit Designs, working one of the most coveted internships in town, living out my wish. It's unbelievable. Seriously, I absolutely love this job. I get to see all the latest designs and in-style fashions, meet quirky, interesting people and be involved in the entire creative process that goes into making these magnificent creations. It's funny how things turn out.
Especially considering how I'd almost given up.
A surge of anxiety twists my stomach, and I frown. It chills me to know how close I'd been to abandoning everything, how close I'd been to letting the darkness overwhelm me. Thinking about it makes me shudder, and I try my best to push the unwelcome thoughts away. It's a constant battle. Dark thoughts always seem to be waiting in the shadows of my mind--stalking me, haunting me, and then pouncing right when I think things are going good.
But things are better now, I try to convince myself. And I need to focus on being happy.
A clinking sound pulls me out of my reverie and causes me to look up. I see my boss, established fashion designer Debra Ferguson, through the glass window of my office, gathering her things and getting ready to pack up for the night.
This is the one thing I don't like about the floor I work on. The whole area is a large open space with floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding the offices, and there's virtually no privacy. Everybody can see everyone else. I suppose it isn't so bad, but I do miss my privacy.
I watch as Debra, who's clad in a fashionable red dress that hugs her matronly frame, slings her oversized Prada purse over her right shoulder and slides on her Gucci shades. For a woman in her late forties, she exudes the kind of sex appeal you would find in someone half her age, and it's one of the reasons why she's so popular. To me, she embodies everything I want to be when I'm her age: intelligent, confident, sexy and in complete control of her destiny.
As she makes her way out of her office, she doesn't bother looking my way. For a moment, I wonder if I should step out and tell her goodbye before she leaves. It would be the polite thing to do, yet I stay rooted in my seat.
I shouldn't, I tell myself, feeling a sense of self-consciousness wash over me. I'll probably just annoy her.
I don't know why I think that way. Debra has been mostly gracious to me. I suppose I'm intimidated by her. At least that's what I think it is. I'm new, and still trying to learn my place. There are only a dozen or so people working here, and everyone has their own routines. I need to learn mine.
Feeling conflicted, I watch as she walks out of the large room and disappears from view. I let out a slight sigh when she's gone. I don't know why I get like this, why I let my own self-doubts cause me to miss out. It's infuriating. And it's a wonder I've even landed this job with all the insecurities weighing me down.
After gently folding and putting away the purple cloth before making sure everything is in order, I grab my vintage Chanel purse and sling it over my shoulder. The purse is a hand-me-down from my good friend and coworker Carla. We shared a class two semesters ago, and I know it's only because of her that Debra even considered me for this position. I owe her so much already. But wow, this purse. I run my hand along the plush quilted leather, still in disbelief that it's mine.