Moments later, after composing ourselves and redressing—though calling it composing was generous given Felix was still half-asleep and drooling on my shoulder as I helped him into his clothes—our core crew, alongside Lloyd’s monumentally muscled entourage, found ourselves gathered in the bar and lounge area.
The air remained stubbornly thick with the lingering scent of sex, musk, and enough cum to probably qualify as a biohazard in more civilized establishments.
The fireplace was doing its earnest best to smother the evidence beneath waves of woodsmoke, lending the whole space the vague scent of a poorly planned camping trip.
We arranged ourselves around the central seating area. Two couches faced each other across a sturdy low table that looked like it had survived several apocalypses and was prepared for at least three more, its dark wood surface polished to a shine that reflected the firelight in warm amber pools.
I settled onto the couch with what I hoped was casual confidence, though the smirk splitting my face probably undermined any attempt at appearing dignified.
My legs crossed with deliberate elegance, one ankle hooking behind the other, the motion making my dress ride up just enough to be interesting without quite crossing into scandalous territory—a delicate balance I’d perfected through years of walking the line between tempting and inappropriate.
Lloyd sat opposite me on the other couch, his crew flanking him like extraordinarily buff guardian statues carved by someone with very specific tastes in male anatomy.
He leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepling in front of his face in that universal gesture of people about to say something you probably didn’t want to hear but desperately needed to.
The position drew attention to his hands, which were still trembling slightly—adorable really, proof that our little performance had rattled him more thoroughly than he’d like to admit.
His brown hair had fallen slightly out of its carefully swept style, a few strands dangling across his forehead in ways that made him look about ten years younger and significantly less intimidating.
He released a long sigh that seemed to originate somewhere around his ankles, traveling up through his entire body before escaping his lips in a rush of warm air. The sound carried weight, the kind of audible punctuation that preceded conversations requiring backbone to navigate.
I raised an eyebrow with exaggerated curiosity, my smirk widening into something that probably looked insufferably smug—which, to be fair, accurately reflected my internal state.
"Your establishment," Lloyd began, his voice carrying the measured quality of someone choosing their words with surgical precision, "is truly magnificent. The architecture, the atmosphere, the illusory magic creating that impossible moonlight—all of it speaks to craftsmanship that most places in this city can’t even dream of achieving. The staff you’ve assembled is..." He paused, clearly searching for diplomatic phrasing. "Memorable. Exceptionally so. Your services are—well, I think we’ve thoroughly established the quality of your services."
"Why thank you," I purred with false modesty, pressing one hand to my chest like a blushing maiden receiving her first compliment. "You’re making me blush. Well, blush more than I already am from the vigorous cardio we just engaged in."
Lloyd’s flush deepened from pink to scarlet, his composure cracking just enough to be delicious before he cleared his throat and pressed forward. "However, there remains one critical issue. One element that separates establishments destined for mediocrity from those that achieve legendary status, that earn positions in the Pantheon itself."
The room went quiet, everyone leaning forward fractionally as though pulled by invisible strings. Even Grisha—who’d been lounging against the far wall with the posture of someone preparing to nap through anything boring—shifted her weight with obvious interest, amber eyes tracking Lloyd with predatory focus.
"Every upper-tier establishment," Lloyd continued, warming to his subject with the passion of someone who’d clearly spent considerable time thinking about this exact topic, "holds one thing in common. They provide a specialty. A unique aspect that makes them stand out from the dozens—no, hundreds—of other brothels competing for attention and coin. Something that draws people in initially, that makes them choose your doors over all the others lining these streets."
He gestured broadly, his hands painting invisible pictures in the air between us. "Take the Verdant Garden, for example—a botanical-themed establishment in the Pantheon that doesn’t just provide beautiful partners, but an entire experience built around exotic plants and the chemical delights they offer. They’ve cultivated specimens from across the known world, flora that produce effects ranging from mild euphoria to hallucinogenic visions that allegedly let you speak with dead ancestors. Their clientele doesn’t just come for sex; they come to explore altered states of consciousness in an environment designed to make the journey feel transcendent."
I leaned forward with obvious interest, my analytical mind already cataloging the information. Julius had gone completely still, his theatrical soul clearly captivated by the concept of establishments as performance spaces. Lloyd continued without prompting, clearly on a roll now.
"Or consider the Crimson Court—one of the Pantheon’s most prestigious establishments, where men don’t simply pay for companionship. They duel for it. Actual combat, fought with dulled blades in an arena built specifically for the purpose. Win your match, claim your prize. Lose, and you’re escorted out having paid the entrance fee for nothing but bruises and wounded pride. The violence is the draw, the sex merely the reward. They’ve turned courtship into gladiatorial spectacle, and people line up for days to participate."
"That," Brutus rumbled from where he stood near the fireplace, "sounds absolutely insane."
"Insane, yes," Lloyd agreed with a slight smile. "Also wildly profitable and booked solid for the next six months. There’s the Silken Eclipse, which specializes in elaborate bondage and sensory deprivation using custom-designed equipment that costs more than most people’s yearly income. The Azure Depths, built around an impossibly large saltwater pool where everything happens underwater with the aid of breathing apparatus. The Golden Cage, where every surface is quite literally gilded, and clients pay obscene amounts to be served by people draped in enough jewelry to fund a small army."
He paused, letting the examples sink in before delivering the killing blow with quiet finality. "Without any unique attributes, your theater will simply be another brothel among hundreds. Beautiful, yes. Well-staffed, certainly. But unremarkable in the ways that matter for achieving true success. You’ll serve the mid-tier clients, maybe attract a few nobles on slow nights, but the Pantheon?" He shook his head slowly. "You’d have no chance of reaching those heights regardless of your inherent quality, because quality alone isn’t enough when everyone offers quality. You need something that makes people say ’I have to experience that,’ not just ’that looks nice.’"
I crossed my legs the opposite direction, leaning back against the plush cushions and folding my arms over my chest in a pose of thoughtful contemplation.
My mind was already racing through possibilities, discarding options as quickly as they formed, searching for the perfect angle that would transform us from merely good into genuinely unforgettable.
This was the kind of puzzle I lived for—taking limited resources and infinite ambition, then somehow making them kiss until they produced miracles.
Julius perked up then with such sudden energy he nearly vibrated off his seat, his golden hair bouncing with the motion as his eyes lit up like someone had just revealed the secrets of the universe written in his favorite font.
"Oh! Oh, that’s simple! We have an entire theater at our disposal!" His hands began gesturing wildly, painting invisible masterpieces in the air. "We could host shows! Performances! Grand productions that make people weep, laugh, and question their entire existence! We could stage classics, commission new works, create spectacles that—"
Brutus shook his head with the slow, deliberate motion of someone watching a friend walk confidently toward the edge of a cliff. "That would be far too simple. There are already performers in every corner of this city—street acts, small theaters, traveling troupes. Half the taverns host amateur performances on weekends. You’d be competing with free entertainment."
I nodded along, my smirk never wavering even as I confirmed Brutus’s assessment. "He’s right, Julius. Merely hosting shows would be far too simple, too expected. People come to the Velvet Chambers seeking thrills, seeking experiences that make their blood race and their hearts hammer against their ribs. They want to feel alive in ways their daily existence doesn’t provide. They’re easily distracted, perpetually bored, constantly searching for the next rush of excitement to chase away the tedium of existence." I paused, tilting my head with theatrical consideration. "Theater is wonderful, don’t misunderstand me. But theater alone? Theater that just sits there being theater? That’s not enough to compete with places offering chemical transcendence or ritualized violence."
Julius’s face crumpled into an expression of such betrayed devastation you’d think I’d just informed him that art itself had been canceled by popular vote.
He launched into immediate protest, his entire body becoming involved in the argument as he gesticulated with the kind of manic fervor that made you worry he might accidentally achieve flight through sheer passionate conviction.
"What are you talking about?! There’s nothing more thrilling then theater in it’s purest form!" His voice climbed in pitch and volume until it bordered on operatic. "Theater is the distillation of human experience into digestible moments of profound truth! It’s watching people bare their souls on stage, it’s witnessing transformation and catharsis, it’s—it’s the closest mortals can come to touching the divine without actually requiring divine intervention! Have you never felt your heart stop during a perfectly delivered monologue? Never gasped when a plot twist lands with the force of—of—" He made grabbing motions at the air like he could physically pull the correct words into existence. "Theater isn’t just thrilling, it’s the essence of thrill, distilled, refined, and presented with perfect timing and—"
I rolled my eyes with a smirk that suggested I found his passion adorable while remaining entirely unconvinced by his argument. "Yes, yes, theater is the pinnacle of human achievement and we’re all philistines for not recognizing its obvious supremacy. Noted. Moving on."
That’s when the crew decided to inject their own ideas into the mix, each contribution more wildly divergent than the last, creating a cacophony of suggestions that ranged from interesting to absolutely deranged.
Willow leaned forward with her crimson skin catching the firelight, one finger tapping against her lips in thought. "We could focus on dream manipulation. I can enter dreams, shape them, make people experience their deepest fantasies or darkest fears depending on what they’re willing to pay for. Imagine offering custom nightmares as a service—wealthy nobles paying to work through their trauma in controlled environments, or thrill-seekers wanting to experience death without the inconvenient permanence."
Nara bounced in her seat with characteristic energy, her bunny ears standing at full attention as excitement took hold. "Ooh! Or we could do something with my bunnies! Train them for shows—no wait, train them to deliver messages! No wait—" Her eyes went distant with increasingly manic inspiration. "What if we had races? Bunny races, but the bunnies are enchanted so they run at impossible speeds and people bet on them, and the winners get to spend time with us, but the losers have to—"
"Absolutely not," I interjected firmly before she could finish that thought.
Grisha grunted from her position against the wall, her tusked mouth curving into what might have been a smile if you were feeling generous. "Fighting pits. Simple. Effective. People pay to watch others beat the shit out of each other, winners get rewards, everyone goes home happy. Well, winners go home happy. Losers go home bleeding, but that’s their problem."
The ideas started bouncing off each other then, mixing and mutating into increasingly absurd territory as people built on each other’s suggestions.
Someone proposed combining the dream manipulation with the fighting pits to create battles that happened in shared nightmares. Nara suggested the bunnies could be armed with tiny weapons.
The conversation devolved into beautiful chaos, voices overlapping and competing until the actual content became less important than the sheer energy of people passionate about terrible ideas.
I raised both hands in a gesture demanding silence, the motion sharp enough to cut through the noise like a blade through particularly enthusiastic butter. The room fell quiet with impressive speed, everyone turning to look at me with varying expressions of curiosity and residual excitement.
"I hate to admit it but Julius is right. We are a theater first and foremost," I said with slow, deliberate emphasis on each word. "Which means our specialty—whatever form it takes—will revolve around that fact."
Grisha’s eyes narrowed with predatory interest, her massive frame shifting as she pushed off the wall to stand at full height. "And what exactly do you have in mind?"
I let my smirk widen into something mysterious and infuriating in equal measure. "I’ll figure it out in due time. Give me space to think, let the pieces arrange themselves properly, and I’ll present something that’ll make the Pantheon itself take notice." I waved one hand dismissively. "Trust me. I’m very good at making impossible things happen through sheer force of personality and questionable decision-making."
Lloyd cleared his throat then, the sound cutting through the lingering tension with bureaucratic efficiency. His expression had shifted from contemplative to concerned, the furrow between his brows deepening as he prepared to address what was clearly the next item on his mental agenda. "Speaking of impossible things and questionable decisions, we need to discuss the next most pressing matter, finances."
The word landed like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of discomfort through Llyod’s crew. Money, after all, was always the least sexy part of any venture, the cold practical reality that tempered enthusiasm with mathematics.
"I used everything I had left," Lloyd continued with the tone of someone confessing to crimes they weren’t entirely ashamed of committing. "Every coin, every favor owed to me, every scrap of credit I could leverage. I scraped my crew back together from wherever they’d scattered after I lost my position. I gathered what supplies I could afford, negotiated for materials on credit I’ll be paying off for months. I’m operating on negative funds at this point, betting everything on your success..." He trailed off, jaw working around words he clearly wasn’t comfortable speaking. "I believe this place could be something special. But belief doesn’t pay for lumber or feed workers."
I burst into laughter—not polite chuckling or restrained amusement, but full-bodied cackling that made my ribs ache and tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
The sound echoed off the walls with slightly unhinged quality, my shoulders shaking as I wiped at my face with the back of my hand. Everyone stared at me like I’d finally snapped, which was fair given the circumstances.
"Oh—oh gods—" I managed between gasps, trying to compose myself enough to speak coherently. "Lloyd. Lloyd, you beautiful, earnest disaster of a man. You’re telling me you bet everything on us succeeding, put yourself into even more debt for this venture, scraped together your entire life savings for supplies..." I paused for dramatic effect, my grin widening until it threatened to split my face. "And you’re worried about money?"
I stood with theatrical flair, gesturing toward the door with grand sweeping motions. "Come with me. I have something to show you that’s going to make this entire conversation hilarious in retrospect."