Page 57 of Untamed

This place is a world apart from the quaint little coffee shop where I used to work in London. The front doors are made of tinted glass, exuding an air of mystery, and are flanked by two imposing stone statues whose significance eludes me entirely. The hostess at the front desk is dressed in a sleek, fitted black dress, her eyes casting a glance that seems to have already formed an opinion about me.

Instinctively, I smooth down the black skirt that Bianca had thoughtfully picked out for me and roll my shoulders back,trying to project confidence. I remind myself; you wanted this. A job. Independence. A chance to feel useful once more.

So why does it feel like I’m about to step into something whose shape remains elusive, shrouded in mystery.

The front doors glide open without a single sound, as if the place has been silently anticipating my arrival. I take a deep, steadying breath.

And step inside.

The moment I walk inside I’m greeted with the smell of booze, sweat and some kind of perfumed air freshener. Reminds me of the that rich scent you’re shrouded in when you walk into expensive hotels.

Okay. This doesn’t look so bad. Certainly, a lot better than I was envisaging.

The interior is stunning, not flashy, butcontrolled. Velvet-lined walls in deep jewel tones, gold accents that catch the light just right. A marble bar stretches across the far wall, backlit with amber shelves showcasing crystal decanters and liquor I can’t pronounce. Soft jazz hums through invisible speakers, sensual and slow.

There’s no clutter. No chaos. Everything andeveryoneis exactly where it’s meant to be.

Tall, round tables with sleek, low lighting fill the main floor, but it’s the raised VIP section that draws the eye. Secluded alcoves with velvet curtains half-drawn, gold nameplates on tables, bottle service, private waitstaff.

It doesn’t feel like a bar. It feels like a stage.

Like I’ve walked straight into the middle of someone else’s performance, and I don’t know the script. A woman in all black approaches, tablet in hand. Her eyes scan me from head to toe, not unkind, just clinical.

“Jordyn?” she asks.

I nod, trying not to fidget. She smiles politely. “Follow me. Mr. Salvatore is expecting you.”

My heels click like muted drumbeats against the polished marble floor as I trail behind the woman through the club’s dimly lit corridors. Here, the bright clangour of the main bar dissolves into hushed laughter and the gentle tinkle of crystal glasses.

Velvet-draped private booths line the walls, each one glowing with the soft halo of low-wattage lamps. Every man in sight wears a perfectly tailored suit; every woman moves as though she’s an exquisite exhibit on display. Daylight may press against the windows, but inside these walls, night reigns.

A burly bouncer in a black suit and earpiece stands guard at a side entrance. His dark eyes flicker over me, and he offers a nearly imperceptible nod. No one else bothers to look. Yet I sense a thousand curious gazes trailing me as I keep my back rigid and my shoulders squared.

We reach a narrow hallway lined with golden sconces, their flames flickering against deep charcoal walls. The woman pushes open an oaken door to reveal an office trimmed in cool, obsidian-hued wood. A leather sofa and armchairs form a semicircle around a low table, and the air is laced with a heady blend of expensive cologne and quiet authority.

A man rises as I step inside. He’s in his early forties, hair jet-black and slicked back, the light catching the silver of his cufflinks. His smile is smooth and predatory, like a velvet-clad wolf baring white teeth.

“Miss Windslow,” he says warmly, extending a hand. His palm meets mine with a firm yet practiced grip, refined, not rough. “I’m Rocco Salvatore, Manager here at Eden. Please, sit.”

I lower myself onto the leather armchair, its cushions sighing under my weight. He settles back into his own chair, dark eyes gliding over me appraisingly.

“You’ve got a good look,” he remarks, voice low and confident. “And a name I haven’t heard before. That’s… useful.”

I offer a small nod, uncertain whether to thank him or tread more carefully.

“I hear you’re interested in part-time work,” he continues, fingertips steepled. “Our VIP floor is expanding its service team. You’d greet clients, pour drinks, engage in light conversation. Above all, discretion is priceless, our guests demand privacy.”

“Understood,” I say, choosing each word. “So… cocktail waitress, essentially.”

He chuckles softly, a sound like velvet brushing velvet. “In essence. But our patrons expect a certain presence. They want to feel noticed, remembered. Having beautiful women around makes them feel like royalty.”

A tight knot forms in my stomach, but I force a polite smile. “I can do that.”

He studies me another heartbeat, then nods, satisfied. “Then you’re hired. Trial shift starts tomorrow night. We’ll provide your uniform, heels mandatory, hair up.”

He rises, and I follow suit. As he escorts me to the door, he pauses, leaning in with a conspiratorial glint in his eye.

“One piece of advice, Miss Windslow,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t trust all the rumours you’ve heard about Eden. But remember this: everything here has a price, attention included.”

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