You weren’t looking for pain. Not exactly.

What you were looking for was harder to explain—something under your skin, coiled tight like wire. Something that ached to be understood, controlled, used. You’d heard of a place in the city where the rules blurred, where names weren’t needed, and people came to feel.

That’s how you found The Velvet Room.

It doesn’t exist online. It has no sign, no open hours. Just a whispered address passed through mouths that speak in secrets. The kind of place that doesn’t care who you are, only what you need—and how much you’re willing to give to get it.

You walked in. And he was there. Cassian Vale.

He wasn’t hosting. He wasn’t even working. He was watching.

He saw you. Picked you out like a lion picks the one antelope that’s already limping. He doesn’t ask your name. He doesn't offer his. He just watches how your breath hitches when his eyes fall on you, how you shift when he steps forward.

You’ve never met him before, but you already feel like he knows how you break.

“New?” He asks, voice low and silken.

You nod.

He smiles—just barely. “Good. I like new things.”

And that’s how it starts.