EXTRACT FOR
Her Complete Submission
(Author Unknown)

CHAPTER 1 - OLIVIA

    

    Tonight is quiet for a change, and I needed that after a hectic weekend. The extra shifts are exhausting, but needs must. I've just moved into a private studio and had to pay a hefty security deposit. In a few weeks, my bank balance will be in the green again, and I can go back to normal, working five nights a week instead of six or seven.

    I miss being on the receiving end of service and never thought I'd be in this position, yet here I am, serving people. Rich people. I used to be one of them, the ones who don't have to think about how much they spend. I ordered Champagne by the bottle and flew to the Maldives on a whim if I felt like it. Always first class and only the best hotels with butler service. My assistant was at my heel at all times, making anything I wanted happen. Marisa was invaluable, and I didn't appreciate her enough when she was around. I wonder what she would think of me now.

    It's sad how life can change in a heartbeat, and how money dictates what place we earn in society. I never thought about this before; I took my fortune for granted. Isn't that what everyone does?

    A Middle Eastern man walks in, flanked by two beautiful women. They're tall, the model kind of tall. He looks entitled and barely notices me as he brushes past me and tries to open the door to no avail. It's always locked and I'm their key.

    "Good evening, sir. Name?" I ask. "Do you have a reservation?" There's normally a hostess at the door, but she's off on Mondays and Tuesdays, as it's generally quiet, so tonight it's my turn to vet the guests.

    "No," he barks at me. "Don't you know who I am?"

    I've heard that sentence more times than I can count, and in the past, I may have even used it once or twice myself.

    "I apologize, I don't," I say with a polite smile, straightening by back and meeting his eyes. "If you would be so kind as to tell me your name, I'll have a look in the system."

    "Ahmad." His body language tells me he's the impatient kind, so I scroll through my iPad, check his photograph, and confirm he's a member.

    "Of course. Please come in. My colleague will give you a great table, and I'll be with you shortly."

    He doesn't answer and sighs when I type in the security code wrong twice, costing him a whopping five seconds of his life. I open the door wide, and he storms in with a huff, giving me a look as to say, I'll make sure you get fired for being so incompetent.

    They won't fire me, though, I'm too valuable for the club. As someone who used to be wealthy, I know how their members like to be treated, and I'm completely unimpressionable when it comes to celebrities and millionaires. Some I recognize, some I don't, but my welcome is always the same, and I will never flinch or ask someone for a selfie. Not that I could even if I wanted to. Before I clock in, I hand my phone over to the head of security, who keeps it in a safe until my shift ends. That way, the staff is unable to tip off paparazzi or message their friends if someone of great importance comes in.

    It's the very reason this club is so successful. The VIP members enter through the staff entrance, and the front door is often locked with the "closed" sign turned. The blinds are down, and time is not a concept here. Day or night, the lights are dimmed, and the biggest spender gets the remote for the music system to play whatever they please. It's the unspoken privilege that shows other members who's the boss for the night, the holy grail that holds the ultimate power in the most ridiculous of ways.

    The smell of shisha hangs thick in the air. Apple, double mint, black mist, and more flavors I can't quite identify because they all blend into one thick smog of choking sweetness that penetrates my nostrils before I close the all-important door again. Smoking cigarettes is prohibited, but we offer the best of the best cigars and shisha, along with an exclusive selection of cocktails, wines, Champagnes, rare teas and coffees, and strong liquors.

    If our members want something, we make it happen, down to the most surreal requests. If a VIP wants to bring in their pet goat, it's our job to make sure their goat is comfortable and doesn't disturb other members, no matter what. It can be challenging, but the tips are generous and the only reason I'm able to keep my head above water. The goat incident was a few weeks ago. When I failed to find fresh hay after midnight, I called Mark, my roommate at the time, to bring some over, as he had a house bunny and kept a big bag in the pantry.

    Mostly, our clients' demands are more manageable than that. Requests such as a specific flower on top of a dessert or adorning one of the private lounges with white candles or healing crystals is more common.

    I'm just about to head inside the lounge and swap places with my colleague, so I'm on the serving end of the process when the security guard brings in a woman. She's tall, almost as tall as Sergei, who's the size of a barn door. Dressed in a pair of joggers and a hoodie, she looks nothing like our usual female members, who tend to rock up in high heels and revealing dresses. Her hood is pulled over her head like she's either cold or hiding, and her hands are buried deep in her pockets.

    "Good evening. Welcome to Annapurna," I say and smile when she slides down her big shades to greet me back. Her eyes are dark, almost black, with long lashes and a perfectly arched eyeliner. Other than that, she wears no makeup, and her skin is smooth and flawless apart from a beauty mark on her left cheek. "Can I have your name, please?"

    "Aisha." The woman smiles back at me. "Aisha Al Zahid. I haven't reserved a table; the hostess told me to check with you. I hope that's not a problem."

    "Not at all. It's quiet tonight." I pause when I read the notes in her profile. As a diamond member, she holds the highest status, and it's unusual for diamond members to show up without entourage. "For one?"

    "Yes, please." Aisha puts her shades back on. If she's famous, I wouldn't know, but she doesn't strike me as a celebrity.

    I type in the security code and let her in, then gesture for my colleague to switch with me and take over the door. "In the back?" I ask, sensing she craves privacy.

    "Yes, the back would be great, if the table on the right is free." Aisha follows me and takes a seat on the velvet sofa. She waves a hand when I'm about to pass her the menu. "I don't want food. Just shisha, a glass of crushed ice, and a teaspoon, please."

    She's polite, and that's refreshing, but the crushed ice confuses me. I've learned not to second-guess strange requests, though, so I nod. "Of course. Do you know what shisha you want, or would you like me to send over an expert?"

    "I'll have a blueberry, apple, and mint," she says, leaning back and making herself comfortable. She props her leg up and rests her elbow on her knee like she's at home, chilling in front of the TV. "That's all."

    I linger for a moment, knowing I'll have to bring up the minimum charge. "It's three hundred for an hour's sitting. That's the minimum charge," I say. On top of the ?18,000 membership fees a year, this can be a ridiculous sum if someone only orders a cup of crushed ice, and understandably, some members don't agree with that, so it's better to let them know in case they haven't read the small print.

    "I know. Don't worry about it..." Her eyes dart down to the name tag on my chest. "Olivia..."

    Our eyes meet for a split second, and the contact makes me flinch. Her stare is so intense, almost invading, as if she's reading my mind. It's like she senses my fascination with her, and she likes that.

    "Okay, Miss Al Zahid. It won't be long." I clear my throat. "Apologies. Is it Mrs. Al Zahid?"

    Aisha laughs and shakes her head. "Definitely not. Just call me Aisha," she says with an amused smile.





CHAPTER 2 - AISHA

    

    It's good to be back in London. I've missed my apartment and this club, which is like a second home to me. I've missed the rain, the chill, the crowds, and the grittiness of the city that even extends to the most exclusive neighborhoods. I like that London is unpolished. It's like a raw diamond, far from perfect but with immense potential. Under the matt surface lies great beauty, and the city is layered and full of surprises. I've missed my tracksuits, my trainers, and being anonymous. Blending in gives me a sense of comfort and freedom that I'm unable to find at home. Most of all, though, I've missed women. The thrill of the hunt, the feeling of their warm skin and their curves, their cries of pleasure and the blissful high after a conquest.

    A few weeks from now, I'll probably miss my father and my country again, but that's the way it's always been, and I've accepted that. There's no such thing as perfection in life, but I've managed to get pretty damn close to happiness, and that's more than I could have hoped for.

    The new waitress is stunning, so I try not to stare as she walks around and takes orders. She carries herself well; she's statuesque without trying, and unlike most other staff members, she's naturally elegant and poised. Olivia knows her stuff. Pretending to be on my phone, I've been listening in, and she's familiar with all the exclusive products on the menu. New waiters often struggle, but she's flawless in her communication and didn't even blink when I asked for my regular order of crushed ice. The combination of shisha and crushed ice is my guilty pleasure, and I savor it like good food. The cold against my tongue alternated by the sensation of sweet smoke is delightful, so why change a winning formula?

    I don't drink alcohol, and I certainly don't use drugs. It wasn't part of my upbringing, and I've never felt the need to try it, not even now that I'm free to do as I please to a certain extent. From what I've seen, it often brings out the worst in people. I'm far from perfect, but at least I won't fall into that trap. No, my pleasures in life are far more innocent. Shisha, crushed ice, mint tea, and women.

    Scanning my dating app that I haven't used for a while, I'm pleased to see over a hundred gay women signed up since I last looked. It's a private app for wealthy people like me, and it saves us from filtering out the gold diggers. I have no interest in being someone's savior, at least not in the romantic sense. I just want to have fun with like-minded women who are discreet and, like me, have a lot to lose if our sexual orientation becomes public knowledge.

    Khadija, the first woman to appear on my phone, is cute, but she looks a little too wholesome for me, like she's got her shit together and is now looking for someone to complete her life and live happily ever after. I may be wrong, but my intuition rarely lets me down. Wholesome generally equals trouble because they have what they want and now they want more. The forever kind of more.

    I swipe left and study Cassidy's profile. Cassidy is a heart surgeon, which tells me she's just above the minimum yearly income required to qualify for the app. She probably has very little time to socialize, and I suspect this is the only way for her to meet women. Reading her tagline, "married to my job," I decide she's safe enough for a casual hookup and give her a heart.

    The rest seem uninspiring or they're simply not my type. I love feminine women; women who like to take care of themselves and wear lingerie and heels. Women like Olivia. She has a sway in her hips when she walks, but I'm sure it's unintentional. She doesn't strike me as someone who works here to bag herself a wealthy man. Or woman. The ones who do-even though they'd never admit to that, as they could lose their job-tend to wear more makeup and look like they're trying harder. They have a subtle, flirty demeanor about them that lies just, but only just, within the acceptable boundaries of interaction between waiter and member. There's no sign of that with Olivia. Not with me and not with the male guests.

    I'm not usually this fascinated with staff, but there's something about her that draws me in. Not the staff, Aisha. Stick to your app, I remind myself. I don't even know if she's gay, but it's not out of the question. Not that I care all that much. It's not hard to seduce straight women; the majority are usually open to a fling. They tend to be surprised when I flirt with them, but that surprise often comes with a hint of curiosity. Their first reply will be that they're straight, followed by a nervous chuckle or a bad joke. But they rarely leave, and that's when I know their interest is growing and that they'll be in my bed by the end of the night.

    Forcing my gaze away from Olivia and turning back to my phone, I continue to scroll for unavailable women. It's something I never do back home in Dubai, mainly because I'd worry for the women I'd meet up with. Someone might see us, or their families or husbands may read their messages and find out. That could have lifelong consequences for them, and I don't want to be responsible for ruining someone's life over a night that essentially means very little to me.

    Jetlag is kicking in and I stifle a yawn. It's too early to go to bed, but I have no energy to head out, so I guess slouching here for a while is my only option if I want to stay awake for a few more hours. I like Mondays at Annapurna. It's quiet, and the music isn't too loud. I notice Darryl, the manager has made some changes to the interior while I've been away, and I like the new rack on the wall that's filled with international newspapers and magazines. There's a Gulf Today on there too, and I suspect he's ordered it for me. Darryl's considerate like that and a good man.

    "I like what you've done," I say, pointing to the rack as he comes to greet me.

    "Thank you. It's good to have you back." He smiles as he runs a hand through his gray, shoulder-length hair that he immaculately straightens like a woman. "It's been a while."

    "Yes. I see you have a new waitress."

    He nods. "She's good. I'm very happy with her." Darryl is about to sit down for a chat with me when his phone rings. "Sorry," he says. "It's been going nonstop today. I'll catch up with you later."





CHAPTER 3 - OLIVIA

    

    Aisha is smoking shisha and eating her crushed ice. She savors it like she genuinely enjoys the combination. I try not to stare at her, but it's hard not to. When she pulls down her hood, a waterfall of long, black hair falls over her shoulders, and I don't even think she knows how beautiful she is when she runs a hand through it. She has full, pouty lips, all natural from the looks of it, and the beauty mark on her cheek. Unlike other members, she's on her phone, minding her own business. She doesn't scan the premises to establish who is who, and she doesn't show off. I mean, come on. Crushed ice is hardly Champagne, but she eats it like it's a delicacy; small bites in between drags from her shisha, and that's intriguing. I can't say I've ever craved crushed ice before, but after watching Aisha, the idea is growing on me.

    Ahmad, who is sitting in the back section close to her, beckons me over. "What is this?" he asks, pointing to the three shot glasses in front of him and the two women at his table.

    I'm not sure what he's referring to, so I look at him quizzically. "Excuse me?"

    "Is this Don Julio 1945 tequila? Because it doesn't taste like it."

    "I can assure you it is," I say, checking my order in the system. The bartender never makes mistakes, and I trust him blindly. I pick up Ahmad's shot glass and sniff. It's not the most conventional way to confirm a tequila brand, but I need to know that I'm right. Members get confused all the time, especially when they've had a few drinks and simply feel like being difficult, so I've learned not to take anything they say at face value. "Yes, it's 1945." This happens to be my favorite tequila, even though I haven't had the pleasure of drinking it since I had to severely tighten the knot on my spending. The hint of vanilla lingers, and even without tasting it, I know quality when I when I smell it.

    "Oh, really? And how would you know the difference between a good tequila and the house equivalent?"

    I take a moment to compose myself so I won't insult him because right now, I really want to. To Ahmad, I'm just a disposable waitress with no class and no intelligence. I'm here to put orders into my iPad and keep my head down. It's difficult, but I manage. Not once have I been rude to people on the job, and when I feel like punching someone in the face, I go into the shisha kitchen for a few minutes and take a few deep breaths. Months of holding back has taught me a lot of things about myself, and one of them is that I don't cope well with being disrespected. Incidents often keep me awake at night. I've taken a total dislike to people in general, and I often find them disgusting, but I've also learned that I'm incredibly resilient, and deep down, I'm secretly proud of myself for coping with my situation the best I can.

    "How about we bring out a new bottle and pour you a fresh glass?" I finally suggest, ignoring his snarky comment.

    "That will do," he says with a huff, waving me off as if I'm some kind of beggar blocking his view.

    When I send a note to the bartender, I can feel eyes on me, and as I look up for a beat, Aisha, who's been watching me, quickly turns back to her phone. I have no idea if the commotion bothers her or if she feels sorry for me, but it doesn't matter. At this point in my life, and for the foreseeable future, we are worlds apart and therefore we don't mingle. Staff and guests never mingle. It's the number one rule.

    One of the runners comes in with the bottle and a fresh shot glass, and I continue to take orders from the twelve or so other guests while he keeps Ahmad busy. The club is small and intimate compared to other exclusive venues, and on a quiet night, I can easily handle the two lounges by myself. Created with the purpose of ultimate discretion, no one will ever be seen walking in or out of Annapurna unless they want to. The VIP entrance at the back of the building spirals through an office basement. It's far from glamorous, but I guess passing file cabinets and old printers makes it all the more exciting, and paparazzi will never see guests entering if they prefer to be anonymous.

    I order peony tea and milk rose cake for a couple in a corner and a bottle of Chablis, dried fruit and nuts and a bowl of gold-leaf-covered popcorn for three Frenchmen engaged in a business meeting, then turn back to my difficult client who is demanding my attention again.

    "Yes?" I force a smile.

    "Lamb chops," he says.

    "Sure. How would you like those cooked?"

    Ahmad lets out a sigh of exasperation and raises a hand to his forehead. I'm clearly giving him a headache with my terribly complicated question. "Medium rare, of course. How else would I want them cooked? Has anyone ever ordered lamb chops well done?"

    It's a ridiculous statement. Many people like them well done, but I have to bite my tongue. I'm about to answer when Aisha gets up and heads over to his table. She stands tall and meets his eyes with a sharp look, then says something to him in Arabic.

    He shoots her a furious glance and answers, and I don't need to understand the language to know this isn't a friendly exchange. A long silence follows before Aisha replies. Unlike him, she never raises her voice, but whatever she says is effective because his expression changes and his shoulders drop along with his head as if he's showing her respect. She nods and walks off, then goes back to her crushed ice and shisha as if nothing has happened.

    I stand there awkwardly while I enter the order for lamb chops. The next question is sure to set him off again, but I have to ask. "Would you like anything to go with your lamb chops?"

    Expecting an explosion of abuse, I'm surprised when Ahmad remains calm. "A green salad, please. The girls will have the same," he says. "I'm sorry for my outburst. I'm having a bad day. I hope you can forgive me."

    "No need to apologize. I'll get that for you." I look at Aisha, and her eyes hold a humorous twinkle as she shoots me a subtle wink. I'm dying to know what she said to him, but I'm not in a position to ask her. I'm only to speak when I'm taking orders or when directly addressed. Part of me protests when turn away because looking at her feels indulgent. It's like staring at an intriguing piece of art; she holds my attention beyond the surface, and I can't help but wonder what her story is. Maybe I'll find out one day, but it's unlikely, and right now, I have more pressing things to do than speculate about the beautiful diamond member.