THE WELCOME PARTY
1951 Words
PleasureHauz looks nothing like its name suggests.
From the outside, it’s a steel-and-glass monolith on the corner of Tenth and Calvary, reflecting the whole of Saint Clarion’s skyline in its shimmering surface. Inside, it feels like another world entirely, half studio, half temple. The air hums with music, laughter, and a faint trace of smoke and perfume.
Matt hesitates in the lobby, hands buried in his coat pockets, eyes scanning the scene. He can already feel the pulse of guilt tightening in his chest. He shouldn’t be here. Not dressed in a civilian shirt and tie, not walking into the headquarters of a company built on lust and artifice.
But here he is, not just because she asked him to come.
A receptionist with diamond piercings greets him, handing him a slim black card. “Welcome to PleasureHauz, Mr. Carver. Ms. Rivers is expecting you.”
“Thanks,” he murmurs, forcing a smile. He’s used that name, Matt Carver, long enough that it almost sounds real.
The elevator doors close around him with a hush. As it climbs, he watches the numbers blink upward, 9… 1… 11. His reflection in the mirrored wall looks like a man pretending not to be afraid. He adjusts his collar, feels for the phantom weight of the clerical one he left behind.
When the doors slide open, the sound hits him first, a low, rhythmic beat that vibrates through the air like a living thing.
The twelfth-floor studio has been transformed into a party. Soft pink and amber lights ripple across the walls. Velvet couches, champagne glasses, a sea of faces. He recognizes none of them, yet he feels their gaze slide over him as he walks through. The scent of liquor and heat thickens with every step.
Then he sees her.
Maya stands near the stage, laughing with two women, her dark hair loose and gleaming, her eyes bright. She’s wearing a backless black dress that seems to absorb the light around her. For a second, everything else blurs. The noise, the people, the ache in his chest.
She spots him and lights up instantly. “Matt!”
He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until she’s already in his arms, her perfume like smoke and honey. She pulls back, searching his face. “You came.”
“Of course,” he says softly. “You invited me.”
She grins. “You look uncomfortable.”
“I am uncomfortable.”
“Good,” she teases. “That means you’re honest.”
Before he can answer, someone else approaches, a man with slick blond hair, a glass of whiskey in hand, and a grin that’s all performance. His presence cuts through the crowd like a blade.
“Ah,” the man says smoothly. “You must be the mysterious plus-one Maya mentioned.”
Matt turns, already recognizing the voice before he sees the face.
Eddie Vallon.
For a heartbeat, the world contracts.
He hears again the confession whispered, Eddie’s voice, low and unrepentant, listing sins like trophies. Things Matt cannot forget, yet can never repeat.
Now, the same voice greets him with an easy smile.
“Maya tells me you’re a researcher of… what was it?” Eddie says, offering his hand.
Matt forces himself to shake it. “History and archival research”
“A man of symbols,” Eddie muses. “You’d fit right in here. PleasureHauz runs on symbols, desire, power, and freedom. It’s art, really.”
His tone is charming, too smooth. Matt senses the performance behind it. He wonders if Eddie even remembers that confession, if this mask of sophistication is the same one he wears before kneeling in the dark, whispering to God the things he’ll never repent.
Maya laughs softly, breaking the tension. “See? I told you, he’d love this place.”
Eddie’s gaze lingers on her a moment too long. “I am especially grateful for our newest star.”
Matt’s jaw tightens, but he hides it behind a sip of champagne someone handed him. The bubbles sting his tongue. He doesn’t drink, not really, but tonight he needs the cover of something, anything that keeps him from revealing too much.
They move through the room together, Eddie talking, Maya smiling, Matt pretending to listen.
The walls are lined with screens showing upcoming projects, trailers, interviews, and glowing faces.
Everything here looks polished, almost sacred in its decadence.
A woman in a red jumpsuit stops them. “Eddie, the board wants a word about next month’s campaign.”
Eddie nods, “In a minute.” Then to Maya, “Don’t vanish before I get back. We have a surprise to discuss.”
He leaves, and the space feels lighter the second he’s gone.
Maya exhales. “He’s intense.”
“That’s one word for it.”
She gives him a sideways look. “You don’t like him.”
Matt hesitates. “I don’t trust people who talk like they own the air.”
She laughs, then softens. “He’s not that bad. He believes in me.”
“That’s the problem”, Matt thinks.
He studies her face, the glow of the lights dancing across her eyes. “Just be careful, Maya. This place, people like him, they can take more than they give.”
She folds her arms, half amused, half defensive. “I can handle myself.”
“I know,” he says, and he does. But knowing doesn’t stop him from fearing it.
Later, the crowd grows thicker, the air warmer. Someone starts playing a slow track on the piano, and a few of the guests gather around. Maya disappears for a few minutes, mingling with colleagues. Matt stays near the bar, nursing a single drink.
From across the room, he catches Eddie watching him, just a flicker of recognition, curiosity maybe.
Their eyes meet briefly before Eddie looks away, smiling at someone else.
Matt’s stomach turns. He wonders if Eddie somehow senses it, the truth hiding beneath the polite smile, the collarless priest standing among the sinners.
Behind him, the door opened briefly. He turns, half expecting Maya, but it’s Clara, a friend of hers, who Matt later finds out connected her to Eddie. Her smile is polite, curious, a little too knowing.
“She talks about you all the time,” She says, “You don’t seem like her usual type”.
“I’ll take that as a compliment”.
“You should,” she says, studying him. “You care about her, right?”
“More than she knows”
Clara’s expression flickers, something unreadable passing behind her eyes. Then she smiles again, softer this time. “Good, she deserves someone who does.”
She turns and leaves before he can reply.
“Hey, Handsome,” Maya says, reappearing beside him with two half-full glasses of champagne. “You should try smiling.”
“I’m smiling inside,” he mutters.
She laughs and clinks her glass against his. “Drink to that.”
He takes a careful sip. “So what’s the surprise Eddie mentioned?”
Her eyes light up. “He said he wants me in one of their new concept shoots. More artistic, he said. Something about blending History and desire. Maybe I’ll finally do something meaningful, not just mechanical.”
The irony nearly chokes him.
History. Desire.
He feels the noose of it tightening, Eddie dangling the very subjects Matt once devoted his sermons to.
Still, he manages, “That sounds… interesting.”
“Come to the shoot,” she says impulsively. “I’ll feel better if you’re there. You can tell me if it looks pretentious.”
He tries to refuse, but she gives him that look, the one that unravels him. “All right,” he says finally. “If it helps you feel grounded.”
“It will.” She smiles, leaning in to whisper something that smells of laughter and warmth. “You worry too much.”
“I have my reasons.”
“Then drink,” she teases again, “and stop thinking for one night.”
He looks at her, truly looks at her, and for a fleeting moment, he almost forgets who he is.
The night wears on.
Music softens, the crowd thins. From somewhere down the hall, a door closes, followed by laughter and a shout.
Matt stands by the window overlooking the city, the skyline a jagged crown of light. Maya joins him, wrapping her arms around herself against the chill.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she murmurs.
He nods. “You should see it from the church tower. Same view, different kind of beauty.”
She smiles faintly. “You and your metaphors.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She eyes him suspiciously, but lets it go. “You’re too mysterious for your own good, Carver.”
He smiles. “You have no idea.”
As they leave, Eddie passes them near the elevator, all charm again. “Glad you could come, Mr. Carver. We’ll see you at the shoot, I hope?”
Matt forces a nod. “Maybe.”
Eddie’s grin widens, sharp and knowing. “Good. I’d love to see how a man of symbols interprets pleasure.”
The doors slide shut between them, sealing the words inside like a curse.
Maya squeezes his hand. “Ignore him.”
But Matt can’t. Because beneath the music and laughter, he hears something else, a faint echo of the confession that started all this.
And as the elevator descends, one thought grips him like a prayer gone wrong-
The devil doesn’t always come in shadow. Sometimes he smiles and offers champagne.
The city is quieter by the time Matt reaches home.
Rain is misting the windows. Streetlights reflecting in slick ribbons across the pavement. He closes the door behind him and exhales like he’s been holding his breath all night.
The silence feels wrong after the noise of PleasureHauz, too clean, too still. He sets his coat on the chair, loosens his tie, and stands there for a long time, staring at his hands as if they might still carry the scent of champagne and Maya’s perfume.
He walks to the small desk by the window. The crucifix above it catches the faint orange glow of the streetlamp outside, turning Christ’s face into a shadowed blur.
“Forgive me,” Matt whispers, though he isn’t sure to whom he’s speaking.
He sits, opens the drawer, and pulls out a small leather-bound journal. The same one he’s used for years, confessions written not to God, but to himself.
He writes:
Tonight, I met him face to face. The man behind the voice.
He spoke of art and freedom, not sin and consequence.
She stood between us, radiant and unaware.
And I, liar that I am, stood there in plain sight, smiling, pretending to belong.
His pen pauses. A drop of ink bleeds into the paper, spreading like a bruise.
If love is a test, I am already failing it.
He closes the journal, sets it aside, and stares out the window. The skyline of Saint Clarion hums in the distance, lights flickering like candles before an unseen altar.
Somewhere out there, Maya is still awake, laughing, maybe, basking in her new beginning. And somewhere else, Eddie Vallon is planning his next move.
Matt feels the weight of it pressing against his chest.
He knows he should pray, but he can’t bring himself to kneel.
So he just sits there, listening to the faint whisper of rain against glass.
And in that quiet, one thought takes root and refuses to leave,
‘If I go to her shoot tomorrow, something inside me won’t come back the same’.
- Writer
