Page 7 of Her Possessive Daddies

"Please." She sections my hair with practiced movements. "When have I ever steered you wrong?"

I look at her wryly. I need to look professional, not like I’m going to be using the pole in the back room. "It's a job interview."

"It's the beginning of Abbie 2.0." She meets my eyes in the mirror. "The one who doesn't need a man to validate her existence."

"When you put it that way..." I smile despite myself. "Maybe a little crazy wouldn't hurt."

4

ABBIE

My reflection in the rearview mirror still startles me. Tessa's "magic" transformed my usual understated look into something that belongs in a fashion magazine. The smoky shadow makes my hazel eyes look mysterious, almost cat-like, and my curls cascade over one shoulder in perfect waves. The burgundy silk catches the streetlights as I drive, making me feel more sophisticated than I've felt in years.

"You can do this," I whisper to myself, channeling my inner Tessa. The words feel foreign on my tongue, but maybe that's the point. New job, new Abbie.

My GPS chirps, directing me to turn right onto a narrow street lined with brick buildings. I double-check the address - this can't be right. The area screams "abandoned warehouse district" more than "upscale cocktail lounge."

I park across the street from what my phone insists is The Velvet Room. The building stands three stories tall, its weathered brick facade blending seamlessly with its neighbors. No sign. No velvet ropes. Not even a hint of the luxury its name suggests.

"Well, this is... underwhelming." I say to no one in particular.

The only indication this isn't an empty building is a small brass plaque beside a plain black door, engraved with "TVR" in an elegant script.

A text comes over from Tessa:Kill it queen! Show them what your made of!

I laugh, some of my nervousness dissipating.Place looks sketch. If I get murdered, avenge me.

Please, you look too hot to murder. Maybe pillaged. Now go get that job so I can get free drinks!

Taking one last look in the mirror, I adjust the silk blouse and grab my purse. The plain exterior must be part of the speakeasy aesthetic - at least, that's what I tell myself as I cross the street. My heels click against the pavement, echoing in the quiet street as I approach the door.

The heavy door swings open to reveal a world that steals my breath. Crystal chandeliers drip from a ceiling painted midnight blue, their light catching on gold-leafed crown molding. Deep burgundy velvet panels the walls, creating intimate alcoves with plush leather banquettes. The bar stretches the length of one wall - a masterpiece of gleaming mahogany and brass, bottles arranged like jewels against backlit glass.

My feet sink into thick carpet patterned with art deco swirls. The air carries notes of cedar and vanilla, with undertones of aged whiskey. Everything whispers of money and sophistication.

A knot forms in the pit of my stomach. This isn't some college bar where I can fumble through learning to pour drinks. The stemware alone costs more than my monthly rent.

What am I doing here?

A woman in a perfectly tailored black dress looks up from the reception podium, one eyebrow raised. It's obvious I'm a little out of my league here.

Tessa's voice echoes in my head: 'You're a bad bitch.' She'd spent twenty minutes hyping me up this morning, dancing around our tiny kitchen in her pajamas. Right. I've spent a good portion of my twenties dealing with drunk frat boys and Chandler's entitled friends, breaking up fights and dodging spilled beer. I can handle fancy drunk people too. They're probably nicer - they can afford therapy. At least they won't try to pay their tab with half-eaten pizza or fraternity IOUs.

I straighten my spine, channeling every ounce of confidence I can muster. The silk of the borrowed blouse whispers against my skin as I approach the podium. My hands are trembling slightly, but I tuck them behind my back where no one can see. Fake it till you make it, that's what Tessa always says.

"Hello, I have an interview with the manager?"

The receptionist's perfectly manicured finger traces down a leather-bound appointment book.

"Abigail Stiles?"

"Yes, that's me."

The receptionist presses a button on the wall, and my attention is drawn to a man emerging from a door down the hallway. He's built like a brick wall in an impeccably tailored suit, and my first thought is that someone definitely cast the wrong actor for this speakeasy aesthetic. He belongs in a movie about organized crime, not mixing craft cocktails.

"Miss Stiles?" His voice is surprisingly soft for someone who looks like they bench press Volkswagens.

"Yes, that's me." I resist the temptation to fidget with my blouse.

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