The building doesn’t look like anything. No signage. No windows at street level. Just a black door set into stone, flat and uninviting, like it wasn’t meant to be noticed.
I slow. “This is?—”
“Fine,” Soren says, already closing the distance between us. “You’ll see.”
I glance up. A camera shifts above the door—subtle—easy to miss unless you’re looking for it.
Soren doesn’t knock. Doesn’t reach for the handle. He just stands there.
A soft click soon follows. The door unlocks.
Something in my stomach tightens.
Inside, everything changes. The sound disappears first. Not completely, but enough that it feels deliberate. Like the noise has been filtered, stripped down to only what’s allowed.
Then it’s replaced by soft music, indiscernible. Just enough to know it’s there, creating ambience.
The lighting is low. The walls dark. Velvet, shadow, something heavy in the air that smells expensive with another layer underneath it. Not smoke, but slower.
A man in a dark suit and unnecessary sunglasses stands at the front. He doesn’t greet us. Doesn’t ask for a name. He looks at Soren. And then he nods. We’re let through.
Soren puts his hand on the small of my back and ushers me through.
The space opens up as we move deeper inside—sections carved out of shadow, people speaking close, leaning in, voices kept low like they belong.
No one’s on their phone. No one looks bored. It’s the opposite of public. It feels contained and exclusive and more than comfortable.
Soren doesn’t look around. Doesn’t pause. He moves like he’s been here before. Like he knows exactly where everything is without needing to check.
I keep pace with him, his strong hand continuing to guide me along. My gut twists as I realize he must have brought other women here.
He stops at a corner booth, tucked back far enough that it disappears unless you’re looking for it. Positioned so you can see the room without being seen properly in return.
He gestures once. “Sit.”
I slide in.
The table is already set. No menus. No choices.
A server appears without being called. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. Just places two glasses down and pours something dark into both.
Soren doesn’t thank him. Doesn’t acknowledge him at all. Like this is expected.
The server disappears just as quietly.
My pulse is louder now. “What is this place?”
He looks at me then, his full attention on me. “Somewhere you don’t get bothered,” he says.
That should feel like a relief. It doesn’t. I reach for the glass, more to do something with my hands than anything else.
His hand closes over mine before I can lift it. Warm. Firm. Immediate. “Go on.”
My breath catches. For a second, I consider pulling back. Testing the line.
I don’t.
Because he’s watching me again—steady, focused, like the outcome is already decided.