Madam X

by Niobia Bryant

Genres: Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

By popular demand, national bestselling author Niobia Bryant brings you the sizzling, sexy, twist-a-minute follow-up to Madam, May I, in which Manhattan’s most exclusive madam discovers her past is back with a vengeance …
Billionaire celebrity clients, anything-goes erotic nights, seductive betrayals—Desdemona Dean couldn’t wait to leave the high-end prostitution game behind.
Now settled down with the only man she’s ever loved, Desi is getting the chances her shattered childhood denied her—and making her life truly her own. Until a basketball superstar publicly credits Madam X’s unmatched sexual services for his astonishing career. Add an anonymous
tip to the police—and suddenly Desi is in the center of a social and tabloid media firestorm …
Knowing others’ secret desires has always kept Desi safe—and hiding her own wrenching past is the only protection she could ever trust. But her lies are taking her relationship apart piece by piece, keeping her only seconds ahead of the police—and exposing her to a malicious blackmailer
determined to destroy her for good …
Now Desi will need all her nerve and cool, calculating bravado to take down her enemies and outmaneuver the law. But once she reveals who she used to be, can she survive the consequences to hold on to the woman she’s become?

Release date: April 25, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Loyalty should beget loyalty.

Desdemona Dean picked up the pace of her run on the treadmill as she focused on the splendid view of the early winter morning in New York. Anger led to her picking up the pace to a grueling run for the last mile of her daily five-mile goal. The modern and spacious gym was one of the amenities she enjoyed in the prewar, sixteen-story luxury building in the Murray Hill section of Midtown Manhattan—still, it did not compare to the routine she enjoyed during her stay in the Tribeca eighty-two-story high-rise building that was part five-star hotel, part luxury residences. There, when she was done with cardio, she would’ve enjoyed a session in the sauna and a deep massage in the spa before ordering delicious French cuisine from room service.

It had been a sweet lifestyle, but by selling that condo and downsizing to another two months ago, Desdemona had made a fiscally sound move—along with being careful with her savings, lessening jewelry splurges, and relying heavily on the success of her evening wear boutique.

The type of freedom I’m enjoying at thirty-five was worth any cost.

Desdemona slowed the treadmill to a stop and pressed her eyes closed in a weak attempt to leave her past in the past.

And for the last year and a half, I did just that. My goal was to enjoy life to the fullest.

With deep breaths meant to calm, she picked up the burner flip phone that cost less than a hot dog and a drink. Her hand gripped the phone tight enough to snap the cheap plastic. There was nothing she wanted more than the right number to call. But she didn’t have it. The last one she knew was deactivated.

“Shit,” she swore, snatching her towel from the handlebar of the treadmill to pat down her sweat in the white running unitard that clung to her curves.

“Can you believe he admitted that?” a woman said.

“OMG! A threesome. Too juicy,” another chimed in.

“I’m buying his book.”

“With all the secrets he dropping, me too!”

Desdemona shifted her gaze to the two women standing near the treadmill. They both were looking down at a touch screen phone.

Motherfucker. Mo-ther-fuck-ah!

She took long strides away from the gossip to cross the gym, feeling her waist-length hair fall from its loose topknot to float around her shoulders and down her back.

“Hello, beautiful,” a male voice called over to her.

She was used to that and gave him a polite but distant smile as she pushed against the frosted glass door. She barely noted the elegant décor of the wide hall as she pressed the button for the wrought-iron elevator. Once she stepped on the lift it couldn’t rise fast enough for her. Time had been moving at a slower pace lately.

Desdemona’s heart pounded with ferocity as the doors opened to the floor of her condo. Then she admitted to the fear that was blended with her anger She stepped off onto the polished floors but paused for a moment, feeling weakness in her legs and a tightness in her belly.

Is this the beginning of the end?

But she remembered who she was and stiffened her spine as she locked her legs. She had overcome far too much in her life to crumble now. Especially because of the actions of someone else.

“This too shall pass,” she whispered. “Best believe that shit.”

Desdemona made her way down the brightly lit hall to the condo. Although there were just four apartments on each of the dozen floors, the move had also led to a loss of nearly six hundred square feet. She unlocked the double front doors and entered, pausing in the foyer to take in the beauty. Sixteen hundred square feet. Open floor plan. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Eleven-foot ceilings. Five-inch-wide solid wood flooring. Modern fireplace. Beautiful décor. Stunning views. It was pure luxury. Hard-earned. Well deserved.

And so very far from the fifteen-year-old girl who ran away from home straight into homelessness.

And worse.

She rushed across the great room to stand before the windows. Her emotions held her captive. Betrayal had a way of doing that—evoking fear, bitterness, and sadness—especially after years of being the keeper of secrets that could have quadrupled her worth. She had offered nothing but loyalty and protection. In return, she expected nothing less.

And with that thought, the anger clawed its way with a vengeance on top of the other emotions.

“Son of a bitch!” she snapped, looking down at the phone still clutched in her grasp.

Now she did turn and fling it into her unlit fireplace to crash and shatter.

Fuck it.

That morning when she purchased that one, she had gone to three other places to buy three more. Each hard for the authorities to directly trace back to her.

And this too shall pass.

Desdemona’s life had been a series of overcoming challenges, and so far, she had taken down each one by one.

Losing my mother at five.

And then my father at ten.

She turned to lean back against the window as she opened the locket that hung around her neck from a long, thin diamond chain. It held a picture of her at the age of one with her parents, Daniel and Portia—a gift from her father when her mother passed. Recently, she had the gold encrusted with diamonds to match all of her other expensive trinkets.

If only our life had been as perfect as it seemed in this photo.

Her mother had been her father’s mistress, and when she passed away, he presented his kindergarten-age daughter to his wife, Zena, and begged not only for her forgiveness but for her help in raising her. That would be a bitter pill for any woman to swallow. But Zena’s façade of love and acceptance of Desdemona faded to cruelty upon his death—particularly when she learned he had left the bulk of his estate to his daughter and she would benefit only from Desdemona being her ward.

The next five years had burst with hurt and a unique hell of open scorn from her stepmother until Desdemona ran away at fifteen, when she felt her stepmother would kill her to get her hands on the inheritance.

And then the shit really hit the fan . . .

Desdemona released a heavy breath and crossed the living room to the large, L-shaped chef’s kitchen to remove a bottle of her favorite wine, a French 2001 Château Rieussec, from the custom refrigerated wine cabinet. She opened it and poured only a little of the sweet drink into a crystal goblet before turning to lean against the marble countertop that matched the backsplash and island. She finished the pour in one deep sip. Just enough to take off the edge but still leave her clearheaded.

It’s not the time to be off my game.

She set the glass on the counter. As she crossed the distance from the kitchen to the foyer, she gathered her hair up into a tight topknot. From the hall closet, she pulled out a full-length, chevron-quilted, puffy down jacket with a fur-lined hood and the monogrammed designer tote she’d carried the day before. By the time she made it out of the condo and back down on the elevator to the underground garage, she longed for the days at her old building, when she used a tablet to alert the valet that she wanted her vehicle. Her metallic-black Maserati Levante GranLusso would have been awaiting her in front of the building with the heat on and the seats ready to warm her bottom. Instead, she used the key fob from across the garage to automatically start the engine as she took long, quick strides to reach her assigned parking spot.

The music on her SiriusXM station was playing when she opened the door and slid onto the leather seat.

“Okay, let’s get back into this bombshell autobiography that dropped yesterday because MQ is straight wildin’ right now,” the male radio host said, his voice filled with the bravado of a New York accent. “Yo, Marquis, I need Madam X’s number. Yo, he’s the plug. Shit. Hook us up because page 238 is goals.”

“I’ll pass,” the woman announcer chimed in.

“Let’s take it to the audience. If you have read the book call 1-888-555-HEAT. We want to know if there is any amount of money that would make you get down with Marquis Sanders like page 238. If you don’t have the book, go buy it. Shit wild yo. Mad wild!”

Desdemona eyed the dashboard—hard—before she reached over to turn off the radio.

Her iPhone vibrated inside her bag, but she ignored it. She was in no mood for pleasantries of any kind from anyone. Desdemona made the drive to the large, national chain bookstore on the corner. She snagged a tight parking spot around the corner and strode up the street to enter the two-story building. She came to a stop at the large display of hardcover books right near the front of the store. There was a life-size cutout of him in all-black basketball gear, with his tattoo-covered, muscled arms exposed as he wore the sneakers named after him. Numerous championship rings on his fingers, a cocky smile on his lean and angular, handsome face.

Her heart hammered as she moved through the crowd surrounding the display to grab a copy of the book.

“Listen to this part, Madge,” an elderly woman’s voice said. “ ‘When Angel saw me naked for the first time, her eyes were big and she—’ ”

“She what?” Madge asked. “What did she do?”

I looked at his dick and told him it was too big.

Desdemona clutched the book and eased through the crowd to reach the long line. Nearly everyone had a copy of the book—and some had numerous copies. Like all of his endeavors, the book would be a roaring success. Damn, she mouthed, raising her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose.

It had been a long time since she’d been called Angel—an alias known only by her tricks and johns.

Things she had long since forgotten came rushing back to her. Causing anxiety. Racing pulse. Nervous stomach. Old pains felt searing. Buried secrets fighting to the surface.

She winced as she thought of Majig, her brutal pimp, lying on the floor of his bedroom with a syringe in his arm as his life faded from an overdose.

I let him die.

After running away from a home that felt more like an emotional prison, the coming of the night had called for finding new places to seek shelter. It was in a twenty-four-hour laundromat that she met Majig. He seduced her with his smile and pampered her with his money . . . before telling her she owed him back for every cent and would repay him by selling herself to men of his choosing.

His physical and mental abuse of her and the other young girls he lured into his trap had no limit.

Saving him would’ve meant choosing captivity for myself.

After three years she had had more than enough of his shit.

“Turn to page 236,” a woman said with urgency.

“You sure that’s what they said on the radio?” another woman asked.

Desdemona stiffened at the whispered voices behind her.

There was no escape.

His mouth is as big as his dick.

“Oh wow, MQ get down like that?”

Desdemona was tempted but fought the urge to see just what freaky frolicking had been revealed. She knew his every delectation very well and so it could be any number of things, including anilingus.

“The butt, though?”

So, it was about the rim jobs.

“He wouldn’t have to pay me,” one of the women said.

“You’d be on call?” the other asked.

“Whenever. Wherever. And whatever.”

Desdemona opened the first page of the book, hoping to tune the chatty women out. “ ‘For my true love. I have nothing to hide,’ ” she mouthed as she read the dedication. “ ‘This is the last hoorah for my past so that we can focus on our future.’ ”

She rolled her eyes, unable to deny herself the immature act.

Feeling her anger and annoyance quickly rise, Desdemona dug her wallet out of her tote and pulled out several crisp hundred-dollar bills as she stepped out of line and walked to the nearest open register. People behind her immediately began to protest and complain—New Yorkers would have it no other way.

She held up the money. “I’m paying for my book and the books of the eleven people that were in front of me,” she said loudly, setting the book and the cash on the counter as the noise ceased and the people rushed to stand in line behind her.

A few offered thanks, most did not. Desdemona didn’t care either way. She just wanted out of the bookstore ASAP.

The cashier rang her up quickly and slid the book into a paper bag. “And keep any change,” Desdemona told the young woman before taking the bag and taking long strides to leave the store.

The winter winds whipped around her and she stood still, seeking calm as anxiety rose again. And for a brief moment, she was able to block out the familiar noises of the city, thoughts of Marquis “MQ” Sanders’s tell-all book and her desire to wring his fucking neck.

“Hey, Desi.”

Desdemona opened her eyes and turned on the street with a smile for her friend and neighbor. Melissa Colbert was crossing the street with her fawn-colored French bulldog trotting at her feet. The petite, thirtysomething Samoan beauty was the first friend Desdemona had dared to have. Ever.

“Hello. You off today?” Desdemona asked, knowing the advertising executive was dedicated to her profession and had been rewarded with a quick ascension up the ranks to vice president at the Manhattan firm where she worked.

“I wish. My dog walker couldn’t make it today so I came home for an early lunch to walk Frenchie,” Melissa said, holding up the leash. “What about you? What are you up to today? You going to your showroom for your online boutique?”

“Classes start tomorrow, so I’m just relaxing,” she said, thankful as she realized Melissa was the first person she’d encountered who wasn’t enthralled by Marquis’s autobiography.

“Annnnnnd?” Melissa said as Frenchie trotted around her feet.

Desdemona arched a brow. “And?”

“Your major? Where are you with that?” Melissa asked before stooping to stroke Frenchie’s shiny coat.

Desdemona released a breath. “Nothing yet,” she admitted, knowing it was a choice she would have to make, and soon, to ensure none of her time, credits, or money were wasted on classes that might not count toward her major.

“Not even a business degree?” Melissa asked. “It could help you grow your boutique.”

Desdemona gave her a soft smile and shook her head. “I thought about it, but that’s not my purpose, and I want to align my education with my purpose,” she said. “That’s the only thing I do know.”

“Meet with your academic adviser,” Melissa suggested before letting Frenchie lead her by the leash down the street toward the dog park. She looked back over her shoulder. “Let’s plan dinner for the weekend. Benji will be back in town tonight.”

“Will do,” Desdemona agreed before making her way down the snow-lined street to her vehicle.

After starting the ignition, Desdemona sat and stared off into the distance, remembering being teased in high school when rumors of her being a prostitute had reached her last safe place. And she had wanted so badly to graduate one day. Shame and ridicule had snatched that from her.

“I heard you selling ass at night. Can I get a freebie?”

She closed her eyes and fought off tears as the memory of her sneakered feet beating against the floor of the hall as she ran from school echoed. Finding a price list of tricks she would turn on the school board had been the final insult.

“Fuck you, Marquis,” she said.

His trip down memory lane in his book had shoved her back into things she hadn’t thought about in a long time.

Like becoming Angel.

Her days as a streetwalker were a trauma she was still fighting to overcome. Late nights and hours of walking in heat, snow, and rain. Johns and tricks. Hand jobs. Blow jobs. Rim jobs. And much more. Much worse. Roughness. Hits and punches. Thefts. Rapes. Perversions. Abuses. Of all kinds.

Jesus. Thank God I made it. Some did not.

Murder, drug use, or jail had claimed many a soul.

Desdemona checked for oncoming traffic before she exited her parking spot to make the short trip back to her building. Soon she parked and gripped the book encased by the paper bag as she rode one of the elevators up to her floor. She was thankful to be alone. Her thoughts were full.

The ramifications of Marquis’s actions could be irrevocable.

How could he do it?

She had asked herself that question a thousand times and never come up with an answer that settled well on her shoulders. This felt like a betrayal—another to add to her long list.

Reaching her front door, she used her key to unlock it.

She closed the door and leaned back against it as she pulled the book from the paper bag. She had to see just how much Marquis had revealed and if any of it could lead back to her or any of the other prostitutes who had serviced him during those five years.

Although she thought about taking a shower, like she normally did after her workout, she dropped her coat and tote on the sofa and claimed one of the club chairs flanking the fireplace on the far wall. She tucked her feet beneath her bottom and opened the book.

Briefly, she remembered that two years ago she’d struggled to read. Those days were over and now she got lost in the words, flying through the pages, no longer needing to look up the definition or pronunciation of words. When she finally closed it, she looked up to realize that day had turned to night and there was more of a chill in the air. She rose and used the tablet to ignite the fireplace and raise the lighting throughout the condo.

The book was well-written and Marquis’s story of climbing from poverty to prominence was inspiring. Thankfully, his mention of sexual dalliances were few, no major details revealed. For that, she was thankful.

She tossed the book into the fireplace and stared into the flames as she stroked her bottom lip with her thumbnail. She lost count of the moments that passed.

With a heavy breath, she rose and made her way across the living room and down the hall past two bedrooms to the owner’s suite. She made a trail behind her with her clothes as she undressed before stepping into the marbled shower to cleanse herself with her favorite Jo Malone London Nectarine Blossom and Honey shower gel. She inhaled deeply of the scent as she fought to remain calm. To think. Strategize. Scheme.

The balls are back.

Foolishly, she’d thought her days of juggling were over.

Think. Think. Think.

Always plotting five steps or more ahead. Maintaining alliances. Keeping secrets. Covering steps.

Constantly.

Desdemona stood naked before the mirror as she pulled her hair back from her face and let raw vulnerability fill her eyes. All her life she had been told she was pretty—and at times she was disliked because of it. She once wore her hair with blond streaks but now settled for ebony to frame her heart-shaped face and doe-shaped eyes, surrounded by thick lashes and a pouty mouth above her small, dimpled chin.

Beauty had not shielded her from a world that could be ugly and brutal.

For twenty years of her life, she had been in the sex trade.

She had successfully avoided arrest by being savvy and strategic. She had always thought five steps ahead. Every move was well thought out. Like warfare. Tell this. Keep that. Do this. Don’t do that. Juggling each and every ball. Trusting no one and nothing.

Twenty years.

It was a long time to live with your guard up.

A very long time.

Desdemona stepped inside her walk-in closet. There, atop the center island, all her diamonds were on display. She preferred them that way instead of hidden away in her safe. She wanted to see them. Touch them. The trappings of wealth. And her armor. Wearing them was a show of her success, from poverty to prosperity.

But during her climb from the gutter, she had lost so much.

She trailed her fingers across the bracelets, watches, . . .