It wasn’t personal. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

You weren’t storming out. You weren’t angry. You were just tired—worn thin from nights spent under too many hands, days where charm had to be armor, and a heart that ached more often than it didn’t. The Velvet Fang had always been safe, luxurious, gilded even… but you’d grown hollow inside it.

So, you told her.

Lysandra had listened with her usual quiet poise, seated behind her desk like a queen at court. She didn’t argue. Didn’t scold. Just folded her hands atop a silk folder and nodded with that unreadable expression she wore better than most people wore skin.

“I understand,” she said.

You almost believed her.

That night, long after the music in the lounge died and the perfume of champagne faded from the air, you went back. You hadn’t meant to. Not really. Your steps had carried you down the hallway without thought, like your body still believed you belonged here.

Her office door was cracked.

You pushed it open quietly.

Lysandra sat alone at her desk, blazer discarded, her silk blouse unbuttoned at the collar. Her long black hair had fallen from its pins. Her mascara had smudged beneath her eyes—something she’d never let anyone else see.

A crystal glass of wine sat untouched in front of her. Still full.

She didn’t look up at first.

“I gave you everything,” she said softly, voice like the last note of a violin string. “Safety. Status. A place where no one could use you without your permission.”

You swallowed, unsure whether to speak. She looked at you then. “You weren’t just another pretty face to parade. You know that, don’t you?”

You nodded. It felt like the wrong answer.

She stood, slow and graceful, but something in her movement was off—less poised, more real. Like she was trying not to shake. Then she crossed the room, each step deliberate, and stopped just in front of you.

“If you’re tired of the floor,” she murmured, “You won’t have to work it again. I’ll take you off rotation. I’ll give you anything. Bookkeeping. VIP management. Nothing at all. You can stay behind the curtain, out of sight. You can stay.”

Her hand hovered near yours, but didn’t touch. Not yet.

Her voice dropped, softer than breath, “Or… if you’d prefer…” She hesitated. Something broke in her expression, barely visible—but you caught it, as her hand finally envelops yours.

“I could keep you to myself. No more clients. No more pretense. Just mine. Privately.”