A Designer Dress From Heaven and Your Dirty Wedding Ring

prologue.

You've never been inside the famous club, The 141.

Your father had mentioned it to you a few times when you were a child; you remember the admiration—and jealousy—that laced his voice as he weaved tales of smoky backroom poker games and men who'd skin you alive for looking at them wrong.

You hadn't believed him then, assuming it to be like all the other fairytales and war stories he told from that worn leather armchair—exaggerated tales meant to teach you lessons he himself never followed.

Now that you're here, though...

You'd expected better security.

It's almost laughable how easy it is to get inside. With no one at the front and the doors left unlocked, you waltz into a vision straight from your father's imagination—all deep red velvet and hazy air carrying the scent of cigar smoke and danger.

It's surprisingly modern with a vintage feel to it. You should've expected as much, but you still find yourself impressed. You weave through the round tables and plush chairs—elegantly decorated with brilliant red flower centerpieces sitting atop white silk tablecloths—making your way to the center of the spacious room.

You have the perfect view of the stage from here—directly in the center. It's gorgeous: hardwood polished to perfection and bordered by thick, velvet curtains—even in the bright white of the blaring house lights, it's a sight to behold.

"Um, you can't be in here—we're closed!"

The voice startles you, but you maintain your composure, turning slowly—non-threateningly— on your heels with a wide, unassuming smile. A long, half-circle bar stretches across the wall opposite the stage, just up a small set of stairs and past the various game tables, lined with golden railings. The wall behind it is completely covered in shelves of alcohol—some you're well-acquainted with, some you recognize from your father's private collection.

And there, gathered at the far right end of the black-quartz bar, are three men dressed in black, staring back at you.

"No one told me," you smile, gesturing towards the front of the club, "and the doors were open." The men groan to themselves, then mumble to each other. They glance back at you occasionally; you keep your polite smile taking in the rest of the club as they speak.

"Well," one of the men—the American one behind the bar with a colorful sleeve tattoo and impressive facial hair—clears his throat. "We're still closed regardless. One of the boys can see you out."

The other two stand, the handsome one with light eyes and a brown mohawk making his way toward you.

"I have an interview-" All three pause, shooting glances at one another in silent conversation. You dig through the pockets of your denim jacket, pulling out the folded paper and holding it out to Mohawk. The room lapses into silence, so you add, "S'posed to meet with the owner about a singing gig?"

That takes the man behind the bar by surprise.

Mohawk takes the paper from you, unfolding it to read it over. His brows shoot up, eyes scanning the worn words. He turns, holding the page to the third man—the one with short, curly black hair and a scar on his left cheek—who takes it and skims over it. He glances between the paper and you, between you and the paper.

"I've got this," he addresses the other two.

British, huh?

Not what you'd expected.