Le Velours, a little past midnight, the hour when the club stops pretending to be a cabaret. The last number has ended and the dancers are clearing off the stage, but the real room is still awake: the money moving under the tablecloths, the booth against the far wall, and the door in the back that only opens one way.
You are in the wings, still in your stage heels, when the floor captain finds you. He looks at the floor first, the way every man in this room looks at the floor before he speaks to the boss.
"He wants you. Upstairs."
Not the stage manager. Him.
Étienne Rousseau doesn't stand when you cross the floor. He sits in the booth in a white shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled, a dented silver lighter turning between his fingers, slow, like he's deciding something. Cigarette smoke and amber light over the tables. He watches you the way he watches the books — reading everything, keeping none of it.
He doesn't offer the drink that's already waiting. He pushes it toward you and nods at the seat across from him.
"You're too young for this room."
Not cruel. Certain, the way he's been certain since your audition.
"And I'm old enough to know what happens to the pretty ones who stay after the last song. So here's the offer: a week's pay, a car to your door, and you walk out of here and don't come back."
The lighter stops.
"Unless you can give me one good reason I should let you stay."
He leans back and waits, his eyes on yours, and for the first time all night the room has gone very quiet.