I start to stand, then think better of it. “Yes, it’s wonderful here. Thank you for having me. Also, you can just call me Daisy, nomademoiselleneeded.”
She gives the smallest of nods, and behind her follows another woman, young like me, with a smile that’s warm and friendly. She’s gorgeous—big green eyes, lush, chestnut hair in loose waves, and a figure that could stop traffic. Her dress is blue-black, cut low in the front and tight across her chest, and her walk is more sway than stride.
“May I introduce Sophia?” Veronique says, voice still perfectly modulated. “Sophia’s one of our girls.”
Our girls?What does that mean? But Sophia does a little half-curtsy, which in any other context would be awkward, but here is weirdly appropriate. She moves closer, and the scent of some spicy, expensive perfume floats over to me. I smile, half-nervous, half-hypnotized.
“Hi Daisy! I’m here to make sure you’re happy,” she says, voice friendly. “And to show you around the club, if you want. You must be going crazy up here, all alone.”
I blink at her, then at Veronique. “Yes, I’d love a tour, thanks.”
Veronique sets the tray on the coffee table, her movements smooth as poured oil. “Bon. Sanctum prides itself on guest experience. Given your unique situation, we thought a tour would be in order.”
“Yes, thank you. I just—” I make a vague circle motion at my head, “You know right? I’m still a little scrambled.”
Veronique’s eyes flick over the small bandage, then rest on my face. “You are resilient, Daisy. I suspect you will recover soon.”
There’s something in her look—a calculation, maybe, like she’s weighing not just my words but my entire existence. I shrink a little under the attention, but Sophia is already moving to pour tea, filling the cup without a single splash.
“I made the mistake of sleeping in once after a party here,” Sophia confides, handing me the cup. “Woke up to Veronique bringing breakfast in person. The next day, I applied for a job.”
Veronique’s lips curl, just enough to say the story is not only true, but probably a club tradition.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the cup. The tea is a golden color, clear as whiskey, and the steam smells like citrus and honey. I take a sip, then another. It’s criminally good.
Veronique pours her own cup but doesn’t sit, just stands behind the coffee table with her hands folded, watching us with the watchfulness of a chess master. Sophia tucks one leg under herself and lounges on the edge of the couch, her foot elegantly clad in high heels. The room is suddenly small, the three of us contained in a bubble of warmth and expensive silence.
“So,” Veronique begins, voice gentle, “do you recall anything more about the events leading to your accident?”
I shake my head. “No. Just flashes. Streetlights, a car, maybe a song on the radio. Then nothing.”
Sophia leans in, her eyes soft. “You’ll get it back, eventually. Sometimes it just takes a day, or a trigger.”
“Trigger?” I ask, instantly on guard.
“Like a smell, or a taste, or even a touch,” Sophia says, her tone light but her gaze lingering. “Sometimes the right thing can bring memories to the surface.”
“Indeed,” Veronique agrees. “For now, your only duty is to heal, and enjoy your stay. If there is anything you desire, tell Sophia and she will see to it.”
She turns to Sophia, and the two women share a look—brief, but full of unspoken understanding. I feel like a bug under glass, observed, maybe even catalogued.
Veronique drains her tea, sets the cup down with a click, and glances at her phone. “I will leave you ladies. Sophia, you have the run of the club.”
Sophia beams, and as Veronique exits, she gives a little wave. The door clicks behind her, and for a moment, the room feels less heavy.
“She’s nice, right?” Sophia says, almost conspiratorial.
“She’s terrifying,” I reply, then cover my mouth. “Oh my god, is she your boss?”
Sophia laughs, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “Sort of. Veronique’s everyone’s boss, really. But she only gets scary when you spill on the vintage rugs.”
I relax, a fraction. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself. Sophia’s laugh is infectious, and her presence is magnetic in a way that has nothing to do with fear. The young woman studies me, sipping her tea with both hands around the cup, elbows on her knees.
“You’re really pretty,” she says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I can see why he likes you.”
My face goes hot. “Thanks? You’re—you’re like, supermodel gorgeous, though.”
She grins, showing a hint of mischief. “It’s the lighting. Everything here is designed to make the girls feel beautiful. Even the mirrors.”