It looks plain and subdued, with an understated elegance, like it could house an embassy or a law firm. Its members aren’t just wealthy. They are the emperors of the world. They always get what they want without quibble or difficulty. The rooftop garden is open year-round so members can gaze down on all that they own and pour champagne on it if they choose. The club’s reputation is impeccable, but also tinged with intrigue—things go on behind its closed doors that didn’t usually go on behind closed doors. Gossips whisper about masks and virgins and orgies involving dark rituals. Its owner Maximilian Gregory is young and impulsive, given to throwing lavish parties then abruptly disappearing for months. I suppose the city’s most infamous billionaire, owner of half the real estate worth owning, could do as he damn-well pleases. The club hires women, though its members are exclusively male. The women who work here don’t pour drinks or light cigars.
