Chapter 2: The Threshold

Chapter 2: The Threshold

GLORIA'S POV

I don’t hesitate. Not for David, not for my son, not for the noise in my head screaming What the fuck are you doing? That encrypted message—those few cold words—have already sunk claws deep into my brain and curled around my spine. I’m being pulled. Possessed. Seduced by a force I can’t name and don’t dare deny.

You are being watched. Come tonight.

Something in those words reached into the pit of me, the place that never feels full, the place where nothing my husband says or touches ever quite reaches. It’s not curiosity that gets me up from the bed. It’s compulsion. Hunger.

I dress without turning the lights on.

Sheer black.

No bra. No panties. No shame.

The gown is barely a dress at all—more like a whisper of fabric, draped across my curves with the sole purpose of exposing them. The neckline plunges low, exposing the soft inner swell of my breasts. The hem brushes my upper thighs like a tease, swaying with every step. I slip on black heels so tall I feel like a weapon.

My pulse is erratic. My mouth dry. My thighs already slick again.

As I fix a touch of gloss to my lips in the mirror, my phone pings once more.

Inside, go left. Door with the red halo.

That’s it. No name. No sender.

I don’t even pause to question it.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing in front of Club Hollow.

The air outside is thick with heat and secrets. There’s no sign, no music bleeding out through the walls—just a steel-black door embedded into the side of an alley, guarded by a silent man in an even blacker suit. He doesn’t check my ID. Doesn’t ask for a name.

He just stares at me.

And then opens the door.

My nerves scream. Every part of me knows what this place is. The stories. The whispers. Club Hollow is a haven for the most obscene, elite, and damned. No laws. No limits. No mercy. Just power, secrecy, and raw desire.

I’m stepping into hell and pretending it’s a dance floor.

The moment the door closes behind me, I feel it.

Heat.

Color.

Pulse.

The hallway bleeds into a massive open chamber, the walls wrapped in shadows and sensual haze. Music thrums low and thick through the floorboards, a hypnotic rhythm that buzzes beneath my skin. Bodies sway in dim light—some clothed, some not—grinding, gasping, licking, bending.

No one looks shocked. No one pretends.

This is not a place for restraint.

Every eye turns when I pass. I feel it—like sharp teeth scraping my skin, tongues lapping at my exposed thighs with just a look. My heels click against the obsidian floor like I own it, but my heart is galloping so fast I’m not sure I can breathe.

I follow the message’s directions.

Left.

A corridor dimly lit in blood-red neon.

I move through smoke and perfume, past curtained alcoves where moans rise in waves. I see hands, legs, bodies in shadows—bent over furniture, spread wide, open mouths, flushed skin. And then I see it:

A door glowing faintly with a red halo.

I hesitate.

One beat.

Two.

And then I push it open.

Inside is darkness.

Thick, waiting darkness.

But I’m not alone.

I feel him before I see him.

A shape steps out from the shadows. Tall. Broad. Studied. His hand reaches for mine—cool fingers wrapping around my wrist with precise strength. I gasp.

His face is still hidden, but his voice slides into my ear like silk soaked in poison.

“I knew you would come.”

My breath catches.

He’s close. Too close. His body heat presses against my shoulder. I want to turn, to see him, to understand what the hell this is.

But he doesn’t let me.

“Eyes forward, Gloria.”

How does he know my name?

“What—who are you?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper, laced with panic and heat.

“I’m no one,” he murmurs. “Just the one bringing you to him.”

“To who?”

“You’ll see. You’re here for satisfaction, aren’t you? You’ve been begging for it without words. Your body’s been screaming for it every night.”

I freeze.

Every night. Watching. Listening.

“Have you been... have you actually been watching me?”

There’s silence. Not denial.

He leans closer until his lips graze the shell of my ear.

“Your fingers looked so pretty when you touched yourself last night.”

I flinch, heart punching my ribcage.

“That’s not possible,” I breathe.

“Everything’s possible when the right man wants to see.”

I feel sick. I feel terrified. I feel turned on so badly my knees go soft.

“You’re insane.”

“No,” he replies smoothly. “Just thorough.”

He leads me forward. I’m dizzy. My blood is lava. The hallway behind the red door spirals into blackness, curtained in velvet and shadow. My heels echo like drumbeats down a corridor no one else walks.

Eventually, we reach a space lit only by a single hanging lightbulb.

A mirrored wall gleams before me.

He lets go of my hand.

“Stand there,” he says. “Face the mirror.”

I hesitate, lips parting.

“I don’t even know what the hell is happening.”

His tone sharpens just slightly—enough to pin me in place.

“Gloria.”

It’s not threatening.

It’s a command.

I swallow hard and obey.

The mirror stretches wall-to-wall, reflecting me: flushed cheeks, nipples hard against the sheer fabric, eyes dark and frantic. I can see myself breaking.

He comes behind me again.

“This is what you wanted, isn't it? No more pretending. No more cold nights beside that man who doesn't even look at you.”

He touches my waist. Just barely. I jolt at the contact.

“My boss,” he continues, “needs something... immediate. A brief satisfaction. And you... you're perfect. A willing candidate.”

I open my mouth to argue. Scream. Run.

But I don’t.

Because he's not wrong.

This is insane. It’s sick. It's terrifying. But it's also the first time in years that I feel like someone sees me. Really sees me. Not as a wife. Not as a mother. As a woman. As something to be used. Desired. Ravished.

I’m so confused.

So wet.

My thighs are trembling, and I haven't even been touched properly yet.

“I don't understand,” I whisper.

“You don’t need to. Just do as you’re told.”

He moves behind me again. Places his hand on the small of my back. Presses down.

I gasp as I bend forward against the mirror, palms catching against the cool surface. My reflection stares back at me—eyes wide, chest heaving.

“This position,” he says quietly, “is how you’ll greet him. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t look back.”

He walks away.

Leaves me there, bent over like an offering.

The silence roars.

Every thought in my head slams together. How did I get here? What the fuck am I doing? This can’t be real. This shouldn’t be happening.

And yet...

My breath is fogging the mirror.

My nipples are straining against the fabric.

My core pulses with shameful anticipation.

I’m standing in a hidden corridor in the city’s most dangerous club, ass out, legs parted, waiting to be used by a man whose name I don’t even know—and I’m not running.

Because I don’t want to run.

I want to be filled.

I want to be broken open.

I want to be seen.

And I think, somewhere down this corridor, someone’s about to do just that.