"Work keeps me sane," Winn muttered. That wasn’t true anymore, was it? Work wasn’t keeping him sane—it was fraying him, bit by bit. He hadn’t told Joey about Ivy yet, hadn’t admitted how she was digging under his skin. That was his private madness.
"I hear the temp secretary the agency sent made it through the week."
"Uh, yeah... she... she did good. But they mostly start good, we’ll see how she does along the way." Why did he sound like he was defending her?
"High praise coming from you. Just hang in there. I’ll run the interviews myself when I get back," Joey replied, rubbing his jaw.
"How’s the wife?" Winn asked, changing the subject in the laziest way possible.
"Still doesn’t like you," Joey said flatly, not even trying to sugarcoat it. Winn caught the sideways glance, Joey smirking toward the other side of the bed. No doubt his wife was there, rolling her eyes at Winn’s name.
"Yeah, the feeling is mutual," Winn deadpanned, raising his glass in a mock toast. He hung up before Joey could needle him further, tossing the phone onto the low glass table.
Below, the stage lights shifted as a new name rolled across the speakers. "Beyoncé... with curves that kill."
The crowd went feral. Men shoved toward the stage, bills waving, wolf whistles echoing through the club. Winn barely glanced at first. But then—
She stepped onto the stage.
Unlike the others, this one wore a mask. A black one that clung to her face. It gleamed under the strobe, matching the lingerie that looked stitched out of stardust itself—discs of glittering silver catching the light every time she moved. The effect was hypnotic. Other dancers had been sexy; this one was a fucking weapon.
She struck a pose by the pole—hips cocked, chin tilted, her long legs stretching on and on, framed in thigh-highs that made her curves look obscene.
This dancer’s presence was... different. She was commanding attention.
He had never seen this one before, but then again, it had been quite a while since he last stepped foot in Commissioned. Time had blurred the parade of women who came and went on that stage, but this one? She was the main fucking course.
He reached for the little binoculars placed neatly beside his seat—an indulgence only the platinum members got. He lifted them to his eyes and adjusted the dial, zooming in until the mask came sharp into focus.
He caught the curve of her lips, the nervous nibble on the bottom one—and it hit him.
"What the actual fuck?!" Winn growled, tearing the binoculars down as if they’d burned his eyes. For a second he sat there in disbelief. No fucking way. He pressed the binoculars back to his face, desperate to prove himself wrong.
But there she was. Ivy. Standing in a pose that screamed sin and confidence, yet with that same goddamn lip bite that gave her away, waiting for the music to begin. Innocence and depravity wrapped in the same body, the same lips, the same curves.
The first pulse of Enrique’s Bailando thundered through the club. She moved instantly, her hips catching the rhythm. The mask and outfit worked in tandem—sexy but not crude, suggestive without stripping her dignity bare.
Winn leaned back in his seat, forcing himself to enjoy the show. The problem was the dozens of men below losing their fucking minds over her the same way he was. They were consuming her. His blood boiled at the thought, jealousy wrapping around his throat.
Her body was glorious. He’d seen it before, of course, just a flash anyway but still. He’d told himself she didn’t know what she had.
But here? Watching her arch against the pole, back bending, breasts heaving with every breath—there was no innocence. There was only power.
Enrique’s honey-dripping Spanish lyrics washed over him, "I wanna be contigo..." Winn’s lips twisted into a bitter smirk. Yeah, buddy, join the fucking club. He shifted in his chair, one hand adjusting his belt as heat pooled low in his gut.
His mind, against his will, translated the song: I want to be with you.
As Nyanda’s Slippery When Wet came on next, Winn leaned back in his seat and pressed the discreet silver bell on the desk. The sound was inaudible in the noise of the club, but it sent a signal straight to the private attendants.
He smirked, eyes glued to the way she bent and twirled, skin gleaming with sweat and glitter under the stage lights. Christ, he wanted to dive into that crowd, push every fucker out of the way, and take the middle spot himself.
His cock twitched at the thought and it was exactly why he pressed that bell.
The attendant arrived swiftly, a slim young man in a black suit with a gold tie. He bowed slightly, professional mask in place.
"Get me that girl. Now."
"I’m sorry, sir. Beyoncé doesn’t take private calls."
For a split second, relief surged through Winn’s chest, and he almost laughed at himself. Oh thank fuck.
"Then get me your damned manager." Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by Nov3lFɪre.ɴet
The attendant swallowed, nodded quickly, and vanished.
Onstage, Ivy—no, Beyoncé—was wrapping up. The crowd below screamed for more, a chant of "Encore! Encore!" rising.
She gave them what they wanted: a bow so elegant it could’ve belonged on a Broadway stage, followed by a playful blown kiss that sent a pack of wolves howling for her love.
Almost fifteen minutes later, when Winn’s patience was already hanging by a thread, the manager finally showed up at his cubicle. A stout man in his late fifties, tuxedo pressed within an inch of its life.
"Mr. Kane.I’m told you’re interested in one of our girls."
"As the attendant explained, she doesn’t do private calls. If not for the fact that she’s our guests’ favorite, we’d have let her go by now. But Beyoncé doesn’t bend on this. She won’t do it."