My mansion was converted into the perfect party spot while I was at the office. I pull my Aston Martin DB11 into the lowest level of my private garage. I drove past a small army of cars parked outside from the catering crews and decorators still putting the finishing touches on my place. The door closes automatically behind me when I pull in. I step out, feeling a sense of numbness when I look at all my cars. Millions of dollars of steel and rubber are in this one floor of my garage alone, and I can’t muster up even an ounce of pride to know it’s all mine.

I push through it though. I’m always a little prone to dreariness on the anniversary of the day I should have become a father. I’m not the sentimental type by a long shot, but this is the one exception. I step inside, fighting the urge to growl out loud as I push past caterers and decorators bustling through my house. I just want a hot shower and some time to relax, but it’s painfully clear that’s not going to happen. I’m bombarded with questions and have to spend the next hour grudgingly grunting and nodding between color choices and where to put this or that. I finally brush it all off and tell them to just fucking decide because I don’t care.

The party starts in full force an hour later. I’m already irritated from having to deal with the people I paid to set up the party. It’s important to get the party right, though. One of the reasons I’m the best at what I do is I know how to get the most out of the people who work for me. I push them harder than any boss they’ve ever had and I demand far more of them than most even know they can give. I also show them appreciation with parties like this on a regular basis. On top of the paid vacations, bonuses, and incentives I offer. These parties are a large part of what makes working for my company a can’t miss opportunity.

I stand over the main entrance of my foyer. I’m on the second floor, leaning against the bannister and watching as group after group of well-dressed young professionals file in. The men wear clean, expensive suits and the women look dazzling in elegant dresses. I try to keep my mind on business, but I can’t stop thinking about Club Crave, and the sudden, nearly irresistable urge to go back there and reignite that side of myself. I step down the stairs, catching the eyes of ambitious men and women who instantly recognize me.

I know most of their faces. I’ve always had a talent for faces and names, so I’m able to slide through the crowd, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and clapping shoulders while greeting everyone by name and asking after the little details I know about them. It’s all part of the game. No one wants to feel like a cog in the machine. Everyone wants to be important and feel special, like they could move up the ladder any day. I give them that, whether it’s true or not, it makes them work hard and like doing it.

As soon as I catch a break from mingling with my employees, I head to the bar and let the fake smile fall from my face. I reach past the bartender and pour myself a straight shot of tequilla, draining it and wincing as it burns its way down my throat.

“Mr. Steel,” says a sultry voice to my right.

I turn to see my new secretary and my eyes are drawn down to the ridiculous neckline of her dress. If she so much as breathed too deeply, her nipples would be proudly on display. She’s bold, I’ll give her that. Her name escapes me for a fraction of a second, but I recover quickly.

“Lacey, you look wonderful tonight. Did you ever find out about those tickets?” The tidbit of information comes back to me with her name. She was trying to get tickets to an orchestra with her friend, but they were sold out.

Her cheeks flush red and she leans against the bar, resting her head on her knuckles. Her eyes are hungry as she looks at me and bites her lip, clearly not realizing I asked her a question.

I squeeze her shoulder briefly and stand. “Enjoy tonight,” I say, leaning in so she can hear me over the music that’s now playing. “There’s no better party in the city on Valentine’s Day.”

She looks after me, mouth open as if she was about to speak, but her words thankfully fail her and I’m able to slip away.

The party is rapidly starting to look more like a party and less like a company sponsored event. To their credit, the decorators did a good job this year, as they usually do. Stage lights were brought in to set the entire room in pink lighting with some areas of bright red. The main living room was converted into a dance floor, and a professional DJ is set up as well. Pink lights line the patio out back and the pool even has red filters over the recessed lighting.

The servers are scantily clad men and women dressed in Valentine’s Day themed outfits. They pass around frozen Tequila hearts on sticks dyed with red food coloring and dusted with salt and lime. There are three full bars throughout the ground floor and more than enough appetizers and finger foods to feed the entire crowd twice over. I can’t take two steps without being stopped by someone, shaking a hand, or being forced to endure someone’s thinly-veiled pitch for why they should be promoted.

It’s only been thirty minutes and I’m already about to lose it. I quickly assess the party and decide it’s already moving in the right direction and has enough momentum to stay that way. There is a growing group of my employees on the dance floor letting loose. I catch a few flashes of women’s skirts riding scandalously high as they bump and grind themselves into their dance partners at the heart of the group.

I slip upstairs, not completely avoiding notice, but only drawing a few curious glances as I retreat to my bedroom and sigh heavily, running hands through my hair. Music thumps loudly from downstairs, sending vibrations through my feet that I can feel in my chest. As always, my eyes are drawn to the door of my play room. Even the door itself promises the sensuality within. It’s padded in thick, polished leather, dimpled with regularly spaced leather rivets. The lock is thick and extravagant, and the key is only a few feet away, hidden in the false bottom of a vase that rests on top of my bookshelf.

Soon. The last time I closed that door was one of the darkest points in my life, and maybe the only way to claw my way back from that darkness will be to open it again. I’ve resisted it for so long, but I have needs, and I can’t suppress them forever.