I opened the alert to see if there was any other info, but shook my head. “It just says ‘VIP’.”

Great. Someone with an ego and extra fear of getting caught. The dungeon we worked in kept a low profile and had such focus on privacy that our standard level of service was VIP. We were the most elite house of fantasy in the world, priding ourselves on discretion, and the accompanying price tag meant all of our clients were VIP in one form or another. The last time I had a client flagged like this, he was an Emirati Prince.

I gave Mistress Ophelia the begging puppy face she could never resist, but she put a hand up so she didn't have to see it.

“Hell no,” she said. “I’m not taking that even if it’s the Queen of England. Anyone who’s impolite enough to schedule a last-minute appointment at 2 a.m. isn't worth dealing with.”

I sighed. “I’m not even taking new clients. Not since the stupid video of me flogging the Vice President leaked.”

Ophelia cackled. “What did he think was going to happen if he did a session outside of the dungeon? Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.”

“He swore his team could guarantee it was secure. I’ve spent my whole damn career keeping a low profile. I don’t have so much as a Facebook page. And now? I’m all over the internet.”

I’d warned him a less secure location would be risky, but he’d insisted, and now we were both paying the price. It was only a ten second clip of me trampling him and then flogging him, but it had gone massively viral.

I was being flooded with new client requests, but wasn’t willing to take anyone who hadn’t been vetted first. The media fiasco would bring out the wackos in droves.

Ophelia tossed the last of her stuff in her locker and kicked it shut. “Text V and tell her you’re not doing it.”

The owner of the dungeon, Victoria, responded to my text almost immediately.

Trust me, you want to take this.

I rolled my eyes and showed it to Ophelia. “Cryptic as usual. It’ll be more of a headache in the long run if I bail on her precious VIP.”

The alert went off to let me know my client had arrived and was waiting in the penthouse.

Ophelia paused. “Want me to wait for you?”

It was a genuine offer. She’d sit there all night if I asked her to, but there was no need since our head of security would wait and walk me to my car.

“No, it’s okay. Dean’s still here. One of us should get some sleep.”

She booped me on the nose on her way out. “Make him suffer.”

With resigned frustration, I glanced in the dressing room mirror to pull my disheveled black hair into a bun and carefully reapplied my signature red Wicked Queen lipstick.

My phone buzzed again with a text from security.