Sinful Pleasure (MFM)

Ava

CHAPTER 4 – Ava

POV: Ava

The seatbelt sign had been off for two hours, but I remained frozen. I’d spent eleven months in London trying to reinvent myself, only to realize I was bringing the exact same person back in two suitcases stuffed into the overhead compartment. I told myself I wasn't nervous. I’d practised that lie so many times over the Atlantic that I was almost starting to believe it.

I knew exactly why I’d left. And I knew, with a heavy thrum in my chest, exactly why I was back.

Damien Voss. I’d been stupid about him once—the kind of soul-crushing, naive stupid that only happens when you’re twenty and think the world owes you what you want. I wasn't going to let it happen twice.

I remembered my twenty-first birthday with clarity that felt like a bruise. I’d worn a black dress that cost more than my first car and walked into his office at Sinful Pleasures like I owned the place. I didn't hint. I didn't flirt. I laid it out for him, direct and unblinking, thinking a man like Damien would respect a woman who didn't play games.

He’d looked at me from behind that massive desk like I was a spill he needed to clean up. Then he said, "You need to leave."

He hadn't been mean. He’d been final. It was the kind of dismissal that made you feel like you’d just tried to speak a language that didn't exist. I’d walked out, booked a flight to London four days later, and told my father I needed "culture."

"Ava?" The flight attendant’s voice broke through the memory. "Can I get you anything before we land?"

"Just some water. Thank you."

I held the cold plastic bottle against my palm, staring out at the grey blanket of clouds. Somewhere beneath that mist was the city. Somewhere in that city was a club built on secrets and architecture. And somewhere in that building was the man who’d sent me away.

I tried to think about him the way I’d trained myself to: as a fact. A person. Damien was thirty-six, controlled, and lived in a world where everything had its place. Most people thought he was cold; I knew better. He wasn't cold; he was just incredibly efficient at never wanting anything he couldn't control.

The problem was that he couldn't control me. Not anymore.

My phone buzzed in my lap. Dad. I let it vibrate until the very last second before answering.

"You’re landing soon?" Ryan Sinclair’s voice was crisp. He didn't do "hello." He did "status updates."

"About forty minutes."

"I’ve arranged dinner for Thursday. The Marchand Group is in town, and I want you there. Wear the blue silk."

I closed my eyes, leaning my head against the cold window. "I’ll check my schedule, Dad."

"It’s not an invitation, Ava. You’ve been gone for a year. People need to see you’re back and serious about the family’s—"

"I’m serious about plenty of things," I interrupted, my voice tighter than I intended. "I’ll call you when I’m on the ground."

I hung up before he could pivot to his next demand. He’d be annoyed, but I was used to that. To my father, I was an investment—private school, the right galas, and the right introductions to the right sons of the right men. He had a map of my life drawn out in his head, and it didn't include a kink club owner who looked at me like I was a problem to be solved.

He didn't know about Damien. To men like Ryan, Sinful Pleasures was a curiosity, a place for people with "eccentricities." He would never imagine his daughter walking through those doors.

The plane tilted, beginning its descent. The city started to peek through the clouds—the river, the grid of streets, the neon pulse of home. I’d missed it. Not with a sense of regret, but with the quiet confirmation that I was never meant to stay away.

I’d spent hundreds of hours in my London flat rehearsing what I’d say to him. I’d polished the lines, sharpened the arguments, and built a version of myself that was bulletproof. But as the wheels hit the tarmac with a jarring thud, all that rehearsed dialogue felt like the old me. The girl in the black dress who needed his approval.

I wasn't that girl anymore.

A car was waiting at arrivals. The driver took my bags in a practised silence that I appreciated. As we pulled away from the airport, the familiar skyline rolled past the window—it didn't feel comfortable, exactly, but it felt known.

"Good flight, Ms. Sinclair?" the driver asked.

"Long," I said simply. "But fine."

I watched my reflection in the tinted glass. I looked the same, but the air in my lungs felt different. I wasn't going to the club tonight. That would be too desperate, too much like the twenty-one-year-old who’d been sent home. I was going to my apartment. I was going to sleep in my own sheets. I was going to let the city breathe for a day.

Then, I was going to walk into Sinful Pleasures, not as a guest but as a member. I’d done my homework. I knew the rules. I knew my rights.

He’d told me to leave once. But he’d never told me to stay away.

I took a deep breath, feeling the hum of the car through the seat. I was done asking for permission to want the things I already had. I was done waiting for him to notice me.

I was home. And this time, I wasn't leaving until I got exactly what I came for.