Chapter 3: The Detective's Interrogation
Madam’s office felt different with a cop in it. The plush velvet seemed to absorb sound too greedily, and the neon glow from the window bled across the detective’s sharp cheekbones, turning her weary gaze into something forensic.
Detective Davis didn’t wait for an invitation. She closed the door softly behind her, her eyes taking a swift inventory of the room before landing squarely on Y/n. She smiled, a thin, professional thing that didn’t reach her eyes. “Quite the entrance you made down there.”
“I aim to please,” Y/n said, leaning a hip against the side of Madam’s desk. She kept her posture loose, defiantly at ease.
“I’m sure.” Davis produced her badge from the pocket of her trench coat, flashing it with a practiced, almost bored flick of the wrist. “Detective Wendy Davis. Atlanta PD.” Her gaze slid to Madam, who had resumed her seat behind the desk, a statue of cool composure.“Marilyn. Always a pleasure.”
“You could have called,” Madam replied, her voice a smooth, chilled marble.
“And miss the show?” Davis turned her attention back to Y/n.“You’re new. Y/n Fuentes.Former specialist, 11th Brigade Support Battalion, honorable discharge.Mechanic. Last known address… over by the rail yards.” She recited it like a grocery list, her head tilted slightly.“Quite a career shift. From diesel engines to… this.”
Y/n didn’t blink.“The skill set’s transferable. Diagnostics, performance, handling client needs.” She kept her tone light, conversational. “Pays better, smells marginally worse.”
A faint snort escaped Davis.She took a single step forward, her hands now in her own pockets. “I’ll bet.Your paperwork here says ‘featured performer.’ That’s a fast track. Most of the guys out there start as bottle service.” She paused, letting the unasked question hang in the air thick with patchouli and suspicion.
“I’m a fast learner.”
“Or you had a compelling recommendation.” Davis’s eyes flicked to Madam for a half-second. “Mind if I ask what brought you to Club Eden specifically? Atlanta’s got plenty of spots for a person with your… unique talents.”
There it was.The careful probe. Y/n straightened up, meeting the detective’s washed-out denim eyes.“I heard the management was professional. That they look after their own. A stable work environment is important.”
“Stable.” Davis repeated the word as if tasting it.“Interesting choice. You’ve been stable here, what, forty-eight hours? And you’re already headlining.” She circled slowly, not around Y/n, but towards the window, looking down at the now-empty stage.“See, my job is looking for unstable elements. Things that tip a balance. A new performer of your… particular stature, generating that kind of buzz, it’s a change in the ecosystem.I get curious about changes.”
Madam stirred. “Detective, if you’re implying my hiring practices are anything but above board—”
“I’m not implying anything, Marilyn. I’m asking.” Davis turned from the window, her focus returning to Y/n with renewed intensity.“Your service record is clean. Spotless, actually.A few commendations.That speaks to discipline, smarts. It also speaks to a person who knows how to keep their head down.” She took another step closer. The scent of rain and cheap police station coffee clung to her.“So what’s different now? Why are you here, letting a room full of strangers watch you?”
The question was sharper than the others, personal in a way that bypassed the professional veneer. Y/n felt the eyes of both women on her—Madam’s calculating, Davis’s dissecting. She offered a shrug, a casual roll of her powerful shoulders.“Maybe I got tired of looking at engine blocks. Maybe the uniform chafed. Maybe I just wanted to see what the view was like from a stage.” She held Davis’s stare, a small, defiant smile playing on her lips. “Is there a crime in that, Detective? Last I checked, dancing wasn’t a felony.”
Davis held the look for a long five seconds.A silent standoff in the mirrored room. Then, her own lips quirked, not in a smile, but in acknowledgment of a draw. “Not yet.” She pulled a card from her pocket—plain, white, with embossed lettering—and placed it on the edge of Madam’s desk.“If your priorities shift, Ms. Fuentes, if you remember anything that might be… relevant to the stability of this fine establishment, give me a call. I’m always interested in the perspective of a newcomer.”
She gave a curt nod to Madam. “Marilyn. Always a educational visit.”
As her hand touched the doorknob, Y/n spoke, her voice clean and clear in the silent office. “I’m sorry I can’t stick around for more questions, Detective. I’ve got a private session booked.”
Davis stopped, her back still turned.“Is that so? Lucky client.”
“I think so,” Y/n said, pushing off the desk. She walked toward the side door that led to the private lounges, moving past Davis without a glance. She paused, her hand on the brass handle, and looked at Madam.“I’ll come back for my pay-out after. Unless there’s more paperwork the detective needs to file.”
Madam’s expression was unreadable, but a faint glint of approval showed in her dark eyes. “The ledger will be waiting, Red.”
Davis watched her go, the door clicking shut softly. She lingered for a moment longer in the office, her gaze now on Madam. “A real guarded one, isn’t she?”
“The best ones always are,” Madam replied, lifting her glass.
Downstairs, the throb of the club’s after-hours music was a muted pulse through the walls. Y/n didn’t head to the lounge numbered on the slip a bouncer had handed her. Instead, she slipped into the staff bathroom, locking the door behind her. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, her breath fogging the surface.The detective’s words echoed. A change in the ecosystem.She was right.Y/n was a wrench thrown into a delicate, dirty machine. She wasn’t just bait for Elara Vaughn anymore; she was a point of interest for a persistent cop.Two problems, just as Madam had said.
She splashed water on her face, the shock of it sharpening her focus. The private session with Elara wasn’t just a performance now; it was the first move in a much more complicated game.She had to be flawless. She had to be untouchable. She studied her own reflection—the striking green eyes, the set of her jaw, the unassailable confidence she wore like her own skin. All of it was armor.All of it was real.
But for the first time since she’d walked into this velvet viper’s nest, she felt the weight of the eyes on her. Not the hungry, lustful eyes of the crowd, but the cold, analytical stare of a woman who looked at people and saw pieces of a puzzle.Detective Davis had found a thread. Y/n’s job was to make sure she could never pull it.
She straightened her vest, smoothed a hand over her fade, and stepped back into the hallway. The path to the VIP lounge stretched before her, dimly lit and quiet. Somewhere down it, Elara Vaughn was waiting, a different kind of predator in a different kind of jungle.
Y/n adjusted the cuff of her sleeve, a soldier checking her kit before entering the field, and walked forward without looking back.