Kian Veylor

They called it The Velvet Room, though that wasn’t its real name. The real one was whispered only to those with invitations pressed between trembling fingers. Behind the double doors, there was no music you’d hear on the radio. It was a low, steady pulse—something slow, something primal. The air tasted like champagne and temptation. Couples didn’t hide here; they displayed. A woman with dark curls leaned against a mirrored wall, lips parted as a man traced his hands up her thighs—while another watched from the leather couch only a breath away. At the center, a circle of bodies swayed lazily in the dim light—hands roaming, whispers exchanged between strangers who had only just learned each other’s names. You shouldn’t have been here. It wasn’t your scene, not your idea. Your friend s