Chapter 72: Platinum Access

"I’ve had a lot of time to think." Marianne said.

"Yes, well, prison has apparently turned you into a menace."

Marianne pushed her chair back and got to her feet. "I don’t need a lawyer, Heathcliffe. But I would appreciate occasional pictures of her. And future grandchildren."

"We are not—" He stopped himself and groaned. He did not have to explain anything to this woman.

"I should say thank you for caring about her. But I’m experienced in knowing how quickly care can turn into a noose. Have a good day," she said.

Then she knocked on the door. A guard appeared almost immediately and let her out.

"Fuck." Dorian leaned forward and rubbed both hands over his face. "Fuck." He had managed to do exactly what Adrian warned him not to do. He had not only ignored Naomi’s wishes, he had dug deep enough to uncover a secret that changed almost everything he understood about her.

Award-winning self-sabotage.

Dorian leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He was good at keeping information. His entire career depended on it.

Clients told him things. He kept those things buried behind privilege and professional discipline without losing sleep.

So why did the idea of keeping this from Naomi feel almost impossible? That bothered him. Not the secret itself.

The fact that he wanted to tell her.

Dorian frowned. He wasn’t in love with her. Dorian Heathcliffe had already proved that he was apparently incapable of maintaining love. He had loved Lillian.

Look how brilliantly that had worked out. He had tried again with Margot. Not the same way. But he had tried.

Then that marriage died too. Camille had been its own special disaster. At some point, a man had to stop pretending the universe was sending him difficult women and consider the possibility that maybe he was the common denominator.

Love didn’t last. It was the same as desire. Intense at first. Then familiarity settled in, excitement faded and eventually whatever had once felt extraordinary became ordinary.

The law of diminishing returns applied to both love and desire. The first kiss mattered. The tenth less.

The hundredth became routine. The first night together could feel unforgettable. A few years later, people slept with their backs turned to one another.

And of all the women to even consider falling in love with, Naomi Bennett was probably the worst possible choice.

The woman didn’t want love. She distrusted it. At least his previous wives had claimed to feel something for him.

Lillian had said she loved him. Margot said she loved him too, though mostly near the end, when their marriage was already bleeding out and neither of them seemed to know how to stop it.

Camille had apparently told her followers she loved him. God forbid the actual husband receive the information directly.

Dorian rubbed his jaw. Naomi, meanwhile, had made no such declaration. To be fair, Naomi had said she loved his cock.

That was at least one part of him receiving strong positive feedback. He should take the win. Except his chest still felt tight from Marianne’s accusation.

******

Adrian arrived at Commissioned Club a little after two in the morning. He was not happy about it. No responsible adult should be hunting down his employer at two in the morning. He had tracked Dorian’s car.

Naomi had been blowing up his phone for hours. At first, he hadn’t been worried. Dorian disappeared into work all the time. He ignored calls when he was in court, and occasionally went completely silent because he had found some tiny inconsistency in a file and decided the rest of civilization could wait until he solved it.

But Dorian had called that afternoon and said he was coming back to the office. He never did. Adrian knew exactly what that meant.

The idiot had turned around. He had gone to Bedford Hills. Adrian would have bet his next paycheck on it.

Dorian was naturally curious. It was one of the things that made him such a brilliant attorney. He didn’t merely want answers; he needed them. A missing detail could irritate him for days. One inconsistency in a witness statement and the man would happily lose sleep until he understood why it existed.

At some point, Adrian had started wondering whether Dorian’s need to have everything arranged, explained and logically accounted for bordered on some kind of psychological spectrum.

OCD, maybe. Adrian was no psychologist. Still, Dorian’s brain definitely refused to leave loose threads alone.

When Naomi called him again after midnight, Adrian’s mild concern became genuine worry. She had tried Dorian repeatedly.

Considering how enthusiastic the two of them had apparently been about reaching Saturday, Dorian voluntarily disappearing on Friday night was suspicious all by itself.

Adrian finally pulled up the tracking information attached to the vehicle. The platinum part of the club was exactly the sort of place wealthy men went when money was eliminated as a limiting factor.

Adrian knew it well enough because he maintained Dorian’s membership himself. Adrian entered through the discreet side entrance used by higher-tier members and gave the receptionist Dorian’s membership number. His own salary was excellent. Dorian paid him well enough that Adrian tolerated late-night calls, impossible requests and the occasional weekend errands.

But even Adrian would never voluntarily pay the monthly platinum fee for this place.

Absolutely not.

That kind of money could go toward a mortgage. A holiday somewhere nice. Anything except purchasing premium access to naked strangers.

His place, financially speaking, was downstairs with the other horny men on the regular floor. And he was perfectly comfortable admitting that.

The platinum level was quieter. Private corridors branched away from the central lounge, each leading toward enclosed sections reserved for members.

The third section was partially screened from the corridor. Adrian stepped inside and immediately spotted Dorian.

Dorian was slumped deep into one of the leather seats, his head thrown back against the cushion and his eyes closed.

His suit jacket was gone.

Tie loosened.

The first few buttons of his shirt were open. On the low table in front of him sat a half-empty bottle of The Macallan 18 Sherry Oak, beside a heavy tumbler with enough whisky left in it to suggest he had stopped bothering to measure.

Adrian stopped in front of him. "Mr Heathcliffe?"