The Marquise

CHAPTER 2

Dominic Voss

I check my watch twelve minutes after we arrive.

Not because I’m impatient.

Because the room is loud in a way that makes concentration difficult, and checking the time gives my hands something useful to do.

Cole notices, of course. He notices everything that disrupts the delicate balance of his evening entertainment plans.

“You’ve been here less than fifteen minutes,” he says, leaning back in his chair like the room belongs to him. “Try to act like a man capable of surviving a social event.”

“I am surviving it.”

“Barely.”

The table between us is scattered with glasses and small plates someone ordered before I had a chance to object. Our client is talking about something to do with development permits, gesturing broadly with one hand while the other grips a drink he’s barely touched.

I nod in the right places.

The music shifts in the background. Slow bass, layered with something softer on top of it. The lighting inside the club is low enough that most of the room blurs into shadow, broken only by the occasional flash of movement near the bar.

I glance at my watch again.

Twenty-seven minutes.

Cole exhales like a man suffering through a tragedy.

“You do realize the point of bringing clients here is to create an atmosphere where they enjoy themselves.”

“I assumed the point was securing their business.”

“That too. But enjoyment helps.”

Across the table, our client laughs at something someone says near the bar. The sound cuts through the music for a moment before dissolving again.

I shift slightly in my chair.

The seat is comfortable enough. Leather, expensive, positioned at an angle that gives a clear view of the stage. Whoever designed the layout understood exactly what people come here to do.

Watch.

The lights dim another fraction.

The room reacts before I consciously notice the change. Conversations soften. A few heads turn toward the stage, anticipation moving quietly through the crowd like a ripple.

Cole glances over his shoulder.

“Ah,” he says.

“What?”

He gestures toward the stage with his glass.

“Now it gets interesting.”

My eyes drift to the stage.

The curtain parts.

The woman who walks out doesn’t rush.

That’s the first thing that catches my attention.

Most performers arrive on stage like they’re stepping into something fragile, eager to prove they deserve the room’s focus before it slips away again.

This one doesn’t appear to be asking.

She moves slowly, silver heels catching the low red light as she crosses the floor. Dark hair falls loosely over one shoulder, shifting against bare skin with the small movement of her body.

Then I notice the pole.

It rises beside her in the center of the stage, gleaming under the lights.

The music deepens.

She reaches it and rests one hand against the metal, fingers closing around it with quiet familiarity.

The room stills in a way that feels almost instinctive.

She turns once around the pole, slow and controlled, the motion deliberate enough that it feels less like dancing and more like something carefully balanced between strength and grace.

Cole says something beside me.

I catch the movement of his mouth.

I do not hear the words.

My gaze stays on the stage.

She lifts herself slightly, one leg sweeping upward as she pivots around the pole in a slow circle. The movement is fluid, controlled in a way that makes the effort invisible.

There’s no rush in it.

No attempt to shock the room into attention.

Just a measured rise and turn that unfolds with the rhythm of the music.

Someone near the bar whistles softly.

She doesn’t acknowledge it.

Instead, she slides back down, heels touching the floor before she circles the pole again, hair shifting across her back as the music deepens.

There’s a strange calm in the way she moves.

Like the pole isn’t a prop.

Like it’s an extension of her body, something she uses the way a dancer uses gravity.

Cole leans closer.

“You with me?”

“What?”

“That’s the third time you’ve ignored me.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m observing.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh and glances back toward the stage.

“Oh,” he says after a second. “Right. That’ll do it.”

“Do what?”

“Distract you.”

I don’t answer.

She climbs again, one arm tightening as she lifts herself higher on the pole, legs drawing in before extending slowly as she rotates downward in a controlled descent.

The movement is deliberate.

Balanced.

Almost… precise.

The word surprises me.

Precision isn’t something I expect to associate with this sort of performance.

Yet every motion seems carefully placed.

Like choreography meant for a quieter audience than the one watching her now.

Her gaze drifts across the room briefly, the movement casual enough that it might mean nothing at all.

For a fraction of a second, her eyes pass over me.

There’s no hesitation.

No startled pause that would suggest recognition or curiosity.

Just a smooth sweep of attention that continues past my table and settles somewhere in the middle distance.

Then she turns again.

Her hand slides along the pole as she circles it once more, body moving through the music in slow, controlled arcs.

“What’s her name?” I ask.

Cole follows my line of sight.

“The Marquise.”

“That’s a stage name.”

“Yes.”

“What’s her real one?”

He snorts.

“You think this place hands those out?”

I lean back slightly in my chair.

The Marquise.

The name fits more comfortably than I’d like to admit.

She moves like someone who expects to be watched.

The set continues.

At some point our client leaves the table to take a call. Cole begins explaining something about a renovation project he’s considering for one of our buildings, using his hands to illustrate the point.

I nod occasionally.

The truth is I’ve stopped hearing him entirely.

The performance builds slowly, the music growing deeper, the rhythm stretching between movements until the entire room seems to breathe with it.

She never rushes.

Not once.

Every climb up the pole unfolds with steady control.

Every descent returns her to the floor like gravity itself is cooperating with the performance.

When the final note fades, the room takes a moment to remember itself.

Applause spreads through the crowd, uneven at first and then louder as people realize the performance has ended.

The Marquise dips her head slightly.

Not a bow.

Just acknowledgement.

Then she disappears behind the curtain.

Cole stretches his arms over his head.

“Well,” he says.

I remain seated.

He glances at me.

“You planning to blink sometime tonight?”

I take a sip of my drink.

The glass has gone warm in my hand.

“You’re the one who wanted to come here,” I say.

“Yes, and I’m delighted with my decision. Our client loved it.”

“He left.”

“He’ll be back.”

Cole stands, adjusting the sleeve of his jacket.

“You coming?”

“In a minute.”

He studies me for a moment longer than necessary.

“You’re still looking at the stage?”

“I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

I consider the question.

The curtain remains closed.

Nothing about the empty stage should be particularly interesting now that the performance is finished.

And yet.

“Nothing,” I say.

Cole shakes his head, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m going to find our client before he gets lost in the bar. Try not to fall in love while I’m gone.”

I don’t respond.

He disappears into the crowd.

The club returns gradually to its earlier rhythm. Conversations pick up again. Glasses clink softly against tabletops. Somewhere near the back of the room someone begins laughing too loudly at a joke I can’t hear.

I sit there longer than I intend to.

Ten minutes.

Twenty.

Another performer eventually takes the stage, someone with a guitar and a voice that drifts pleasantly through the room without commanding the same attention.

I barely notice.

An hour passes before I finally stand.

Outside, the air is cooler than it was earlier, the city humming quietly beyond the club doors.

My driver opens the car door as I approach.

I slide into the back seat and loosen my tie slightly.

The car pulls away from the curb.

I stare out the window as the lights of the street blur softly against the glass.

I should not come back here.

Club Velour is not the sort of place I frequent.

And yet the image of crimson light, silver heels, and a woman turning slowly around a polished pole lingers somewhere near the front of my mind.

The Marquise.

I exhale slowly.

I will not come back.